


Tomorrow

by wearwind



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: A Year in Kirkwall, Arishok battle, Bad Puns, Bickering, Character Study, F/M, Fenris learns freedom, Friendship, Gen, Good times, Hanged Man shenanigans, Hawke is a dork, Hawke of Hightown, Kirkwall's Golden Age, Lotsa romance, Qunari, Romance, SO MUCH SEXUAL TENSION, Sarcastic Hawke, Satinalia, Screw Destiny, Sexual Tension, Summerday, political dealings, semi-canon, winter ball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8641366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearwind/pseuds/wearwind
Summary: So he left her. But life goes on.Set in Act 2 of DA2, a semi-canonical story of friendship, bickering, bad puns, fighting, eavesdropping, sexual tension, Satinalia, Wintersend, and anything and everything that comes together into just simply this wonderful, vibrant mess that is Hawke's Kirkwall, back in its glory days. Mostly romance. Fenris' POV. Standalone piece. Same universe as 'Choice of the Champion' and 'Hawk and Wolf', filling in the gaps.





	1. Solace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my newest guilty-pleasure story about my all-time favourite Aedale Hawke! You might have already known her from the never-finished ‘Hawk and Wolf’, describing how she and Fenris came about in the first place; or you might be following ‘Choice of the Champion,’ spanning across the gap between DA2 and the Inquisition. And because I got slightly depressed writing about Kirkwall being already destroyed and Hawke’s merry band of misfits disbanded, here’s the middle piece of the story to fill in the blanks – act II, set after Fenris spends the night with Hawke and then leaves. It’s written from Fenris’ perspective.
> 
> And therefore, in Tomorrow you will find plenty of what we know and love about DA2: bickering, bad puns, Sarcastic Hawke As The Only True Hawke, bits and pieces of family drama, Sexual Tension, cards, drunkenness, and just all-around Hawke shenanigans filtered through Fenris’ ever-so-keen eyes. It does have an ending, and a more-or-less concrete storyline, but as opposed to the ‘Choice of the Champion’ it’s not story-driven – it’s more about the characters than anything else, and about Kirkwall in its glory days. Do enjoy!
> 
> The chapters are named after the Thedosian months in which they happen.

 

The first weeks are unbearable, and he tells himself he’ll go. He’ll leave. She’s trying to hide the hurt and bury it under those relentlessly shining eyes, but there is hollowness in them he recognises all too well. Every time there is a trail of wetness on her cheeks, his insides clench in helpless self-hatred and he loathes, loathes, loathes the fact that he was the one to wet them – he’s left, he’s closed the door on her as she screamed his name, and he is quite positive that the sound of it will hound him for the rest of his waking days. And so he picks up his things from around the mansion – there isn’t much to pack – and waits for the right moment to go.

But there are things to do, slavers to kill, rounds of Wicked Grace to play, and he realises he doesn’t want to.

Maybe tomorrow.

Hawke snorts as Varric reaches the punchline. “ _No_ _bloody way._ ”

“Totally true, Chuckles. The templars had to clean their mugs from piss for _days_.”

“That’ll teach them not to mess with a mage!” chirps in Anders with satisfaction, and Fenris wants to strangle him. “Angel of Death, by the way. Judgement time.”

“So dramatic tonight, Andy.” Isabela lazily turns her cards over. Fenris is not surprised to see that at least three of them have already been discarded, but pointing out that Isabela is cheating would be about as pointless as pointing out that the sky is blue, Divine is Andrastian, and he is a complete bloody idiot. Hawke’s eyes flicker across his hands.

“Don’t keep us in suspense, Fenris. Whatcha got?”

His ears twitch as her tongue rolls over his name, but Hawke appears unaffected. He reveals his cards: two knights, two songs, and an angel -  a lousy middling hand. “Nothing suspense-worthy, I’m afraid.”

“How lame. And here I thought you were actually going to deliver.” It feels like a stab to the heart before he realises that it’s just a harmless jab, no double-edged meaning, no nothing. Hawke is grinning at him – at _them,_ he corrects himself meticulously – and slaps her cards down.

“Four angels and a serpent! Just like this table. Done and over with, dearies, pay up.”

“That was cheating, Chuckles! She was cheating, Isabela, d’you see that?” Varric high-fives the pirate, shedding mock tears of joy. “Our baby’s growing up.”

“Now the questions is, who’s the serpent amongst the angels? Because he’s definitely buying the next round.”

“We-ell, my kisses _definitely_ kill it.” Isabela bends over Hawke, wiggling suggestively, and the mage swats her away. “But I think it’s only fair if it’s on the winner.”

“I’ll get it.” His own voice surprises him. “On the account of the next win I’m obviously going to have.”

“Dream’s the important thing, elf.”

“He just wants to spit in our drinks, I tell ya. With his serpent venom.” Hawke makes a face at him. “I see right through you, Fenris.”

He knows he shouldn’t, but she makes it too easy. “You’re seeing double already, Hawke? You might want to check her cards, dwarf. There may turn out to be _two_ angels in the end.”

She snorts. “Yeah. Two angels and two assholes. Am I right, Isabela?”

“And a serpent.”

“And a serpent,” she agrees. At her side, Anders shoots him a sideways glance, and he needs to go to the counter before he snaps something decidedly less amicable.

The conversation continues behind him, a familiar lull of voices squabbling over something insignificant, and after a quick look at the candlemarks he realises that it is already after midnight.

Maybe he’ll leave tomorrow.

 

-/-

 

Hawke hasn’t forgotten.

She’s so easy about it that he is almost fooled, but she avoids him when she’s drunk. She and Isabela stand outside the Hanged Man, voices soft and hushed, but they forget he’s elven. He doesn’t even need to focus too much to hear the words, doesn’t even need to strain his imagination to picture Hawke’s trembling lip.

“Don’t let him walk back with me, Isabela. Maker’s breath, I don’t know what I’d do now if I’m left alone with him. I might slap him. I might pounce him. It’s too much.”

“I wouldn’t try the pouncing, love. Unless you’re really fond of that fisting thing.” Isabela’s voice is light, but there’s some real concern lacing it. “You’re not over it. Obviously.”

“I am! When I’m sober.” Hawke hiccups, an adorable little sound that makes his heart lurch. “When I’m rational. I just don’t want to scare him off. I have nightmares, you know. That I’ve ruined things so much that he runs away.”

A pause, in which he can hear another hiccup over the sound of blood rushing to his ears.

“Give him time,” says Isabela finally. “Guys like him don’t know what they want. Things get weird after an one-night-stand sometimes, but he’d be an idiot to reject friendship like yours.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it. You okay with Anders walking you home? As much as I know you’re a fucking badass, Hawke...”

“No, it’s fine.” No, no it’s not, he wants to yell, his fingertips whitening as he squeezes his fists tight, the _abomination_ should not walk her home. “Spells and ale don’t go together as well as I’d like them to. And then he can get to his clinic through the cellar.”

“Yeah. I’ll keep Fenris busy here, don’t worry.”

A pause. “Isabela…”

“What, sweetie?”

“I fucking love you. But if you sleep with Fenris, I might just slap you with a fireball.”

The pirate laughs. “You’re such a dog in the manger.”

“You know us Fereldans.” She hiccups again, and his heart swells despite his anger. He hears a quiet rustle – a hug, he decides – and Isabela comes into view, her face the normal expression of demon-may-care.

“Fenris! What in the Void are you doing here?” Her eyes narrow as she sees him.

“Enjoying the fresh air,” he drawls with slight irony. As if the air in Lowtown were ever fresh. Then he decides to play along: “You said something about another round, Isabela. Still up for it?”

She relaxes. “Am I? Make sure you have the coin, sweetheart, because the moment I’m done with you you’ll be buying me drinks into Satinalia.”

Fenris snorts. As they come in, Isabela bends over Anders and murmurs a couple of words into his ear.

It’s pathetic, he decides, how quickly the mage scrambles to get out.

They play, and Isabela’s prediction comes true: he loses. Mostly because he cannot focus on anything else than a blood-freezing image of the mage – _the abomination –_ disappearing behind the closed doors of the Hawke mansion.

 

-/-

 

After that, he learns to see her indifferent quips for what they are: an exercise in bringing back the platonic friendship.

He tries. Maker knows he tries. But she’s never content to let the sleeping dogs lie – again, a Fereldan to the core, he thinks and smirks faintly -  and pushes him relentlessly, forcing him to realise again and again that his feelings for her did not change. He was an idiot. He was an idiot and tainted something beautiful with anger and vengeful rebound. If he needed another reason to hate Hadriana, that would be it: instead of gentleness and emotion, he gave her his wrath in a physical form, and it backfired into them both.

He resolves not to make that mistake ever again.

He should leave tomorrow.

“Fenris! Hey, Fenris!”

She waltzes into his mansion with a handful of scrolls in her arms, skipping across the staircase in a singsong rhythm.

“Check this out. Remember that last slavers’ den in Lowtown that you basically took out on your own? So Anders and I went back there and actually searched the place. And would you just look at this stuff! We’ve got maps of all the hideouts here, all around Kirkwall!” She throws the scrolls at him and they unravel at his feet in one glorious map rain, a move so very _Hawke_ she had to plan it before she came in. He purses his lips, not sure whether to thank her or laugh out loud.

Then the _Anders and I_ gets through to him and the laughter disappears from his throat. “Thank you, Hawke. That is… much appreciated.”

She makes a dismissive gesture. “Least I could do, really. Considering that you stole all my kills.”

“You need to be quicker next time.” He smirks despite himself.

“Oh? Well, you need to be slower _._ Can’t have you hoard all the fame to yourself.” She crouches at the maps, gesturing for him to join her, and he obliges. They are crude and not exact at all, but he can recognise the rough shapes of Darktown and the Wounded Coast; they are littered with small x’s. “So I’m not sure however many of these things we’ve already eliminated, and how many will relocate as soon as the word gets out that we’ve killed these guys here, but it’s still worth checking them out. If we work out a pattern to these,” she looks up and smiles at him brilliantly, and his breath catches in his throat, “we might just be able to dismantle the Free Marches slavers’ network! How would you like that, huh?

He nods mutely. He would like that well and she knows it. The less influence the slavers of Tevinter have in Kirkwall, the weaker Danarius will be when he finally comes for his prized possession.

“Thank you, Hawke.”

“No problem. Hey, are you doing anything tonight?”

 He raises his head at that. “Nothing I know of. Do you have a task for me?” Something that would require _him_ to accompany her instead of the _abomination,_ maybe?

“I might have. So Aveline tells me that there’s a concert in Hightown tonight. A great harpist, apparently, not that I’d be able to tell. I think Orana would really like to go, but she won’t dare to do it alone, and honestly I would rather not send her into the lion’s den unprepared, the nobles would eat her alive… You up for accompanying her?”

At first, it seems like a strange, but innocent enough request, and he opens his mouth to agree.

Then it hits him.

 _She wants him to go out with Orana. She’s setting him up on a_ date _of all things._

Hawke is watching him intently over the maps, and he desperately wishes he could understand what is going on in her head. Maybe it _was_ an innocent request on behalf of the girl. Maybe he is reading too much into it.

“You seemed a little lonely lately. Think about it as a nice throwback to a courtly life. And, you know, it might be nice to spend some time with someone with similar experiences…”

_Ex-slave with an ex-slave._

Something dark and ugly stirs within him. Anger and frustration bubble up to the surface, never too far away.

He looks at her, and she winces noticeably – a small, cruel part of him is glad. “There is _nothing_ I miss about courtly life of the nobility, Hawke. A slave’s part in it was hardly enjoyable.”

“Fenris, I didn’t mean-”

“But if you insist, I shall endeavour to wear my most fashionable chains-”

“ _Fenris!_ ” she interrupts him, her face twisted in anger and shame. “You _know_ this is not what I said!”

“Would you rather skip that part? Go right through to breeding?” he snarls, and her face turns white.

“ _What?_ ”

“If you want me to have a tumble with your ex-slave elven servant, you needn’t make it overly complex. We might get confused.”

She’s angry now, she’s positively _fuming,_ and he half-expects a slap. The magical energy in the air sets his lyrium aflame.

“How dare you,” she hisses, “ _how dare you_ say those horrible things?!”

“You were the one to suggest it.”

“I wanted you to go _out_ of this funeral-smelling mansion! I wanted you to talk to someone who could understand you, to have some basic connection with another person which is not based on killing! I would never – _never, ever –_ suggest that-” She stutters, too furious to speak, and Fenris is _fascinated._ “How _dare_ you even say that I could ever think of you – think of Orana like that?!”

“I can manage my social affairs just fine, Hawke.”

“Evidently so,” she growls and stands up. “Is this what you think of me, Fenris?! This is what I am in your mind?!”

He opens his mouth to say no, to apologise, to say that this has been a mistake and he’s been angry and frustrated and – the very thought of _her_ being so comfortable with _him_ bonding with another woman, this complete lack of jealousy despite what she’d told Isabela before – it _burned –_ but Hawke doesn’t look at him. She turns around and storms off, seething, and for a split second he thinks he sees wetness on her cheeks.

Again.

He’s done it again.

Failure, failure, failure, _failure._ He was a _failure._

“Hawke!”

The angry steps in the hallway turn slower, more hesitant. Then they come to a halt.

Then they resume.

“Hawke…” _Please,_ he adds in his mind, not bearing the sound of begging out loud.

He follows her out and finds her at the door, one hand already on the doorknob. He had not imagined the wet trail on her cheeks.

His own cheeks burn.

“No,” he manages through the thickened throat. “No, this is not what you are in my mind. This is not what I think of you. I’m sorry.”

She stares at him, unmoving. He cannot take his eyes off her hand on the doorknob, and part of him wonders if this is how it felt watching him go, that morning after Hadriana…

It is _paralysing._

“I literally brought you the maps to all the slavers’ dens in Kirkwall, to make sure everyone who would ever see you as a slave was dead,” she says finally. “I’ve done everything I can to make you realise you’re a free man, Fenris, and you’ll stay that way as long as I’ve got anything to say about that. But it’s all for nothing if you don’t consider _yourself_ free.”

He knows. He agrees. But this is not about that.

“What are _you_ doing tonight, Hawke?” he asks before he loses the courage, and her mask of composure shudders.

“I’ve got stuff to deal with at the Bone Pit. Won’t be back before tomorrow, I think.”

“I’ll go with you.”

It’s not a question, so she cannot say no.

There’s surprise in her eyes. There’s also something more, but he doesn’t dare look too closely. It would be a normal thing to do, they’ve travelled together after… after Hadriana, but now the context is obvious: she wanted him to stay and accompany Orana.

He wants to accompany _her._ This is as far as he can allow himself to go.

“Anders is coming too. You sure you can take it?”

He stops the half-formed snarl from twisting his face, although he’s sure she’s noticed anyway. “As long as you keep him in check.”

Hawke flashes a fleeting smile. “Funnily enough, he said the same thing.”

It’s only later, when she is gone, and he sits and looks over the scattered scrolls, that he realises what her comment meant: she’d always intended him to come along.


	2. August

She knows.

She knows and she laughs at him, and she’s _mad._

The Veil is thin in the Bone Pit, even thinner than in Kirkwall, and the thought of what made it so – the blood of countless Tevinter slaves worked to death in these quarries – makes his stomach sick. Even more so when there is a tear, and a pride demon roars to life through the Fade, and several more slip through before the Veil fluctuates again and closes behind them.

She faces the pride demon alone. There’s a crown of spiked ice around them, he doesn’t know whether the demon cornered her or _she did that on purpose,_ and she looks so ridiculously tiny against the gigantic bulk of the demon. He runs to her, bare feet steady on the ice –

The demon charges at her, and she’s standing with her arms down, staff lowered, taunting, laughing. The creature roars furiously and runs into her. 

“ _HAWKE-_ ”

She moves.

The demon is too slow. A deafening roar cracks the air of the cave and – it crashes itself on the long razor-sharp icicles behind her, spearing the gigantic body on half. Its fire dims. Hawke looks at him and she laughs triumphantly, and he cannot look away.

 _She_ should have. The demon trashes once more, and his claws- his claws-

The creature fades, but Hawke falls down too.

“Anders!” she calls softly, and it’s almost as bad as when she called his name from behind the closed doors, only now it’s not him, he’s been replaced, he can’t help her, there’s so much _blood-_ anger takes control over that splinter of panic, and he tears down the sharp ice with brute force. The _abomination_ is there in an instant, he’s crossing the icy shards and cocooning her in a blue glow.

“Hawke! Shit, I leave you for one second,” spits Varric from the other side of the cave, a black bruise blossoming on his cheek, but Fenris barely notices that. He feels the poisoned magic flow from the _abomination_ and course through the frayed Veil _,_ and this is not right, not right, not right.

“We need to get her outside,” he barks, and surprisingly the mage does not object.

“Take her staff.”

There is blood, so much blood on the stone as he follows him.

They finally get out, and they work together in a brisk but well-practiced manner, immobilising her, unfolding the bandages, pressing the healing poultice to her lips. Hawke is half-awake, her eyes are bright and wide with pain, and she does not protest when the mage is cutting down her tunic to reveal a singed, shallow slash from her collarbone to the hip.

He forces himself to look away.

“Could’ve sworn you’ve never seen a woman before, Fenris” she taunts. A snarl crosses his face and there is a thousand profanities he could use now, but he swallows them all and keeps silent. She knows for a fact that _he has._ “Though we usually _do_ look better. Ow, _shit!_ Careful, Anders- I guess the cries are different too.”

So easy. So light-hearted. But his blood boils at the memory of _her cries_ and he might just explode.

“Shut up, Hawke,” says Anders, his voice marked with the Faded focus. “I’m trying to fix up an acre of skin here.”

“ _All_ of you, shut up. I think Bianca might have gotten scratched.” The dwarf is examining his crossbow, and for once Fenris is glad for a flash of familiar _,_ relatively harmless madness. Hawke giggles, her voice high-pitched and light from blood loss.

“Would you look at that. She got scratched. Wish I knew how that is.”

“Well, Chuckles, healers are a copper a dozen, but you should just _try_ finding a good blacksmith.”

“How about I smack you in the head and get you to a smithy then?” suggests Anders over the blue glow.

“I guess I’ll just have a cleaned mechanism and a nice artisan finish on the lid.”

Fenris leaves them to their bickering and sits on the sand with his back turned on Hawke, clearing his blade meticulously. He doesn’t know about love, but he knows desire, and he despises himself for feeling it at the sight of her bleeding body. And he despises _her_ for knowing it, and taunting him over it, a mark of shame…

“Fenris. Are you wounded?” she calls from behind.

“No.” A ghost of smile appears on his face. “You stole my kill.”

She lets out a bubbling laugh. “You totally had it coming. Anders, check him up, would you?”

This is also a part of a routine – she doesn’t believe him to report his injuries anymore, not after he broke an arm once and she found out five days later. A wave of testing energy engulfs him for a split second and he doesn’t even try to hide his disgust, but then it withdraws immediately. Evidently Anders does not wish to have any more contact with him than himself, so it’s bearable.

“Nothing more than an elevated pulse, Hawke. Hopefully he can manage that on his own.”

The lyrium flashes in pure white anger. _The bastard-_

The mage knows why Fenris’ pulse is elevated, and the humiliation is almost as hot as the fury. He does not dare look at Hawke, instead imagining how wonderfully obscene sound Anders’ heart would make if he tore it out of his chest and threw to Hawke’s mabari.

Not that that wuss of a lapdog would eat it, of course.

“I can manage just fine without you, _mage._ ”

“Tell me that next time you slash through your pancreas. I’m sure it’ll stitch itself together with hatred alone.”

“No one is slashing through _anything,_ ” says Hawke and there is steel in her voice. Fenris looks down. Anders hushes behind his back. “Unless it’s firewood. Fenris, Varric, would you make camp? I have a feeling this is going to last a while.”

“The more you speak, Hawke, the more you move your chest and ruin my handiwork. It’s not exactly easy to patch it up without a scar, you know.”

“I’d rather avoid that, if you would. Can you imagine ever getting naked in front of someone and having to explain that this is from the gigantic pride demon from under an old quarry-”

“What did I _just_ say.”

“I’m just saying it could kill the mood.”

“ _Hush,_ Hawke.”

She hushes.

Fenris finally turns around and immediately wishes he hadn’t. He’s heard that babble before, that half-conscious light-headed prattle that usually followed her injury. But this – this was somehow worse, with Hawke laying down in a puddle of her own blood and the _abomination_ hunched over her, his glowing hands skimming across her chest. And it doesn’t matter that he tells himself it’s a patient-healer situation, that she is still perfectly decent in her breastband, that they are out in the open and there is him and Varric – the jealousy _burns,_ not only for the closeness they share but also for the stinging fact that he would not be able to help her in the same way.

And so he moves to put up the tents, leaving the healer to tend to his patient, and trying his best not to think about who the healer and the patient are.

There is at least one comfort: now he is sure she knows his feelings.

Not that it changes anything, but she does.

 

-/-

 

He ends up sharing a tent with Varric.

When he thinks about it, it’s obvious. He is definitely not sharing with Anders if either of them is to make it out alive, and Hawke has all the reasons not to want him sleeping next to her. He is not opposed to the dwarf either – he finds him an easy company at the very least, and less jarring than most.

What he is opposed to is the very logical fact that in this arrangement, Hawke is sharing the other tent with Anders.

He doesn’t say it out loud. But in the night, he lies motionless and hardly breathing, focused not to miss a sound from the other side of their little camp.

He is so absorbed by listening that a quiet clearing of a throat makes him jump.

“So,” says Varric casually, “are we going to talk about it, or are you going to sulk through the night and get out of here even crankier than usual?”

Fenris ignores him. He has no desire to become the subject of the dwarf’s next anecdote.

“You know, she does it for you.” Varric waits for him to raise to the bait, but when no reply comes, he continues anyway. “She doesn’t mind sharing a tent with you. She’s worried that you might.”

He scoffs. In the darkness, he sees Varric shake his head.

“Shit, people are going to complain that I’m being too cheesy if I write it as it is. Reality has no sense of good drama.”

“You never describe reality,” he points out, and Varric sniggers.

“That’s because I _do_ have it. Go to sleep, elf. They are not screwing over there.”

A blush creeps up to his ears, and he is glad for the dark. “Bold assumption.”

“Ha! Not for Blondie’s lack of will, that’s for sure. But she’s not that desperate yet.”

Varric sounds so easily confident about it that Fenris’ pride starts to waver. After all, there is no shame in asking for another’s expertise…

“Dwarf.”

“Elf.” Varric mimics his dull tone, and he starts to second-guess whether this is a good idea to begin with. He blurts out the questions before he changes his mind.

“Does she love him?”

“Huh.” There is a tone of contemplation in the dwarf’s voice, as if he is really considering it, and Fenris finds himself anxiously awaiting the answer. Varric has his shortcomings, and he himself seems to be safely out of reach for any romance, but he knows human hearts well. And, which is important, in a decidedly different way that Fenris. “I think she does. It’s different, though.”

His own heart sinks. “Different how?” he asks, and he feels like he’s drowning in all the unspoken things this implies. _Of course. Of course she does._

“Don’t quote me on that, elf… but I’d bet my money on the platonic option. Loving, but not _in love._ ”

Fenris repeats that sentence in his head and it feels like a lifeline he does not deserve. “That doesn’t make sense.” He doesn’t know love, but he’s heard one knows when one loves. And when one does know, one acts on it… But there is no sound from the other tent.

“Look, elf, you need to remember that things were different before we stumbled onto you.” Varric’s voice is hushed now, more introspective. “She ever told you about the Red Iron? That merc band is no joke, and she ended up on the top, one doglord apostate refugee with nothing to her name. Then she killed their leader, less than a month after she’d left. And it’s been just Aveline and her, and the other two Hawkes, for all that time… That changes you. Then I show up, get the expedition together, and then we find Blondie.”

Fenris listens. He is familiar with the story, but he’s never considered this angle of it. He knows the Red Iron and he’s aware that Hawke served with them, but he never thought about the jarring difference between the cold-blooded mercenaries and Hawke’s colourful, witty demeanour.

“She’d had two mages around her for most of her life, and then suddenly there was no one, and the world was falling apart with the Blight and dragons and shit. So here’s where Blondie comes in. He was different too, at the beginning.” He can hear the nostalgia in Varric’s voice. “Big head with big dreams and big ideals. Like a steaming pot of inspiration. And boy, did she need that. I’m not a fan of that weird magic stuff, but there’s just some connection you immediately catch after being told you both can shoot sparkles out of your fingers, and he was just what she needed.”

He wants to scoff and sneer, but despite himself, _he understands._ And it makes her offer to go accompany Orana – _just wanted you to talk to someone who’s been through the same thing_ – all the more meaningful, and his tantrum all the more shameful.

“They’ve been friends for years now, elf. Before you even came round, and then after she got smitten with you. Everybody knows he worships the ground she walks on, but who cares? She’d die for him. He’d die for her. That’s all that matters.”

Fenris lets out a heavy breath. All Varric has done is made it slightly more difficult to hate Anders; but he did nothing to quell the flames of jealousy inside him.

 _He’_ d die for her too.

 _Does she love me?_ He doesn’t dare ask that question. Even if she did, he wouldn’t know how to reciprocate: all he’s got to share is anger and violence, and he’s promised himself never to throw it on her again.

He opts for an easier question.

“What was she like? Before… him?” _Before me?_

“Colder,” says Varric after a moment of consideration. “More broken. Less hopeful. More ruthless. Then the expedition gave her something to hold on to, and Blondie the means to actually follow through with it.” He pauses for a moment, then adds: “Mind you, I haven’t actually seen the worst of it. Aveline has.”

Fenris nods.

Hawke is a world-changer, a rule-breaker, an unbound, spinning firestorm of change. He hasn’t given much thought on the Hawke-refugee.

“And whatever you say about Blondie, he’s got a heart twice the size of Thedas. He won’t leave that clinic, for everything that the Carta does to make his life miserable.”

“He’s _possessed,_ ” snaps Fenris angrily.

“Hey, never said that he had the brains to match.”

Fenris turns in his sleeping bag so he faces the dwarf now.  “Tell me the truth,” he demands with urgency that seeps into his voice despite himself, and wants to continue but Varric chuckles.

“You sure? No-one ever asks for truth. Truth’s boring.”

“Yes. No lies, dwarf. No pretty stories made to sound good.”  He takes a deep breath. “Tell me what I am. For Hawke.”

Varric makes a deep humming sound in his throat, something that reminds him of Tivus, a slave he knew in Danarius’ mansion: a blood sacrifice, with his tongue cut out as a punishment for screaming.

It is not a good memory, and he winces.

“That’s why you’re so bad at cards, elf.”

“How is this relevant?” Fenris blinks the memory away and looks at the dwarf, confused. He must have missed something.

“You give away your hand too early. That’s the boring truth here. See, it’s not exactly a secret between our little merry band that you two had a thing, and for someone who apparently _ended_ the thing, you pine in the most outrageous way.” Fenris wants to protest, the blush of shame and humiliation creeping back on his ears, but the dwarf holds up his hand.

“Hear me out. Maker knows what Hawke is thinking about this, but it’s pretty clear that _you_ have no idea what you want. So either you are the long game sort of player, with some brilliant strategy behind it all, or you’re just trashing around and confusing everybody. And as long as you do that, she can’t really react.”

Fenris turns his head.

 _Guys like him don’t know what they want._ That’s what Isabela said to her that evening…

But Fenris knows what he wants. He wants to be free, with no looming threat of the master to haunt him, and he wants _Hawke_ as a boon of that freedom, and as so much more too. But whether he dares –

That’s another matter entirely.

“Whatever you did, it scared the shit out of her. So she won’t make a move again. If I were to bet my money on what it was, I’d say something slavery-related, and that’s heavy stuff, elf. And I don’t mean that in the stupid way. Heavy on _her_ too, as much as it’d be only a fraction of what you have. She’s your leader, not your mistress, and whatever happens now she’ll force the choice back into your hands, because that is the single healthy way it can possibly work.”

Fenris’ breath catches in his throat. _Is that it? Is that… the reason for everything?_

 _His choice. His will. His freedom._ A boon, and a burden of a masterless existence – his decisions remain his, and the consequences are also his, and oh, a part of him would love Hawke to come and _command_ him to be her lover – but he cannot have that. Not with the pride stiffening his neck. He walked away from her, and he made a choice, and so she…

...She _respects_ it.

He turns away from the dwarf, staring at the linen of the tent.

“Hey, elf.”

“Dwarf.” His voice is hollow.

“She cares about you, though. If you really need _me_ to discover it.”

He doesn’t – he sees it every day in her quips that are just a touch too careful, and in the stained parchment of the scrolls marking slavers’ dens. But it feels good to hear it out loud.

He’ll leave, eventually. Perhaps tomorrow. But now it doesn’t feel like the right time.

 

-/-

 

They spend another day clearing out the Bone Pit, then another searching for a couple of ingredients that the herbalist in the Gallows asked for, and then they get delayed by a band of Tal-Vashoth, and before Fenris realises it they have been gone from Kirkwall for almost a week. He enjoys being out in the open, but their leathers are starting to stink.

The company is easy, and even the _abomination_ is less hateful after Fenris knows what he is to Hawke. Once she refers to the Tal-Vashoth as the Qunari, and when he corrects her she asks him to explain. So he clarifies the meanders of the Qun as well as he can, unwittingly mimicking Varric in his manner of storytelling, and that makes her laugh. He tells her of the kossith race, of Koslun, of the Triumvirate and the Tamassran. She is surprised that he speaks the language, and he is surprised how quickly she picks up the basic concepts, foreign as they are to the chaotic, individual-based culture of Thedas. They get into a heated dispute about it, and he discovers with a kind of shameful relief that she’s _fine_ with him arguing with her, as long as he’s got arguments to support it.

He’s got all the arguments.

“How is that debasing, Hawke? Their society is far more stable than yours, and the Tamassran know exactly how to use up the best of one’s potential. If you’re strong, you’re a warrior. If you decide that you’d rather be wise than strong, you move on to priesthood and science. This is the choice many Thedosians lack.”

“Not _again,_ ” mutters Varric and slows his pace to leave at least three steps’ gap between  them. Anders  casts a passing glance at Hawke’s face, hesitates, and joins the dwarf behind them. Fenris is glad.

Her eyes shine. “How is that _not_ debasing? You’re binding your own mind to the service of a gigantic sentient machine. I’d rather be poor and my own woman than a peg in someone else’s plan.”

“How gracious of you. I’m sure all the beggars of Thedas would agree, given the choice. But the Qun is not only for the material wellbeing, it’s meant to give purpose. Is that not the entire notion of _destiny_ you humans are so fond of? The Qun is just a practical measure to reach it.”

Something flickers in her eyes, a memory of an old fire, and he wants to ask.

“Destiny is malleable, Fenris. Which, I suppose, makes it a rather lousy destiny, or no destiny at all.”

“So you don’t believe in one’s greater purpose.”

“Oh, I do.” She throws her back and looks at the night sky. There’s a distant glow on the horizon, the promise of Kirkwall’s warmth and rest not so far away. “See, this is _exactly_ the problem with the Qun. They presume you’re born with your potential, and that what they give you is meant to unlock it, as if you’re just a bred resource.” Her gaze flickers to him, and yet again he feels a sting of shame for his outburst several days ago. “But for such a complicated philosophy, they fail to see the obvious - you don’t _have_ a pre-described potential to be cultivated by the Tamassran, they just grow you into it. It’s _life_ that creates you, Fenris, it’s your own choices that shape your purpose, and that’s just as much of a destiny as I will ever believe in.”

“So you would have blind chance guide you instead?”

She flashes a smile. “No, Fenris. I’ll have _me_ guide me instead.”

He shakes his head at that. Maybe the Qun is too much of a foreign concept after all.


	3. Kingsway

“So we walk right into an ambush! These massive horned beasts come out from behind the rocks and charge at me, and boy, do they stink. And I yell, ‘Qunari!’ And Fenris is like, ‘No!’ And I’m like, ‘What do you mean no, they’re _literally charging at me right now_ ’. And he says, ‘Yeah, but they’re called _Tal-Vashoth_.’”

The table laughs at that, and even Fenris flashes a smile under his eyeroll.

“This is the sort of keen political awareness that has brought you all the way up to Hightown, Hawke,” says Aveline. The mage grins at her.

“Mindless slashing of all the things stupid enough to attack me? Absolutely. Politics in a nutshell.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” observes Merrill in her half-innocent half-cynical tone. “I’m sure those Tal-Vashoth did nothing half as bad as some politicians!”

“Ha! Good one, Kitten,” sniggers Isabela, putting down her ale. “You know, Hawke, all that quarry-running and demon-killing you do must be bad for the skin. Why don’t you try battling in gardens or something?”

“Bad for the-” Anders almost spits his drink out. “You don’t know the _half_ of it. And I end up having to patch it all up, and do I ever get thanked? No! It’s always ‘you left a scar here, Anders’ and ‘get done with it, Anders’ and ‘why are you so sloppy, Anders’. Worst patient ever, I tell you.”

“That’s because I’m impatient.” Hawke makes a pause. “Geddit? _Impatient._ ”

A collective groan shakes the table.

“That’s got to be your worst one yet, Chuckles.”

“Aedale Marian Hawke, your ancestors are rolling in their graves to see a scion of the noble house debase herself like that.”

Hawke shrugs it off easily. “One day you shall know my brand of humour for the pure genius it is. Until then, the world is not ready.”

“It certainly isn’t,” agrees Fenris, and she rewards him with a crooked smile. Across the table he sees the abomination’s eyes follow hers.

“So,” says Aveline, her tone clearly suggesting that she is leaving the puns very decidedly behind, “were the roads safe? We’re spreading ourselves very thin with all that Qunari business in the city. I could really use calling back a couple of patrols.”

“When you say safe,” says Hawke with a spark in her eye, “do you mean safe-safe, or do you mean after-Hawke’s-merry-band-of-misfits-has-walked-in-safe?”

“I’m pretty sure she means the first, Hawke.”

“You never know with these law-abiding guardspeople, Merrill.”

“That’s not even a word. And I did mean the former, yes.” Aveline casts her a long-suffering glance, but Fenris can tell there’s no annoyance in it. The dwarf’s story makes him realise the small details that he’s taken for granted so far: how Aveline is always the first to welcome Hawke back, how _Hawke_ never passes two days without stumbling into the barracks when she is at home, how normal it feels to find the two of them having dinner together with Hawke’s mother. There’s a story behind it, something raw and visceral and traumatic, but it’s closed off and buried over the simple notion of kinship.

But the thing that hits him the most is that Aveline knows Hawke’s first _and_ second name.  

“It’s more or less okay to the west, but the way to the coast is crawling with Qun- _Tal-Vashoth,_ ” Hawke corrects herself theatrically and winks at him, and he rolls his eyes again. “But this is just Varric’s fault.”

“How the hell is that my fault, Chuckles. You’re not pining that trouble magnetism of yours on my poor head.”

“Remember how Isabela said we should go to the beach?”

“Yeah?”

“You said that the day I go to the beach will be the day the pirate zombies decide to attack. Haven’t seen any zombies yet, but the bloody Tal-Vashoth camps are damn too close to home.”

“Well, shit. Every liar tells the truth sometimes, if only by accident.”

Fenris’ mind floats away over time. The conversation continues in a bizarre six-way flow, and he drifts in and out of it, trading barbs with the dwarf, shutting down Isabela’s outrageous offers, straightening bits and pieces of a week’s worth of stories that slowly seep through the chaotic chatter. The ale relaxes him, and when the table erupts with laughter at Hawke’s another anecdote he is almost _happy._

It’s a scary thought.

The Hanged Man’s door opens, and someone walks in: a tall, pale-skinned man with dark hair meticulously combed back. His piercing blue eyes are widened, and for a split second Fenris sees the scene as he must: a beardless dwarf, two tattooed elves, a pirate, an apostate, and the guard-captain at the table all together, chuckling, and at the heart of it - laughing her head off at her own joke, her brilliant mirth spilling out across the room, her black hair in dishevel, her eyes shining like the centres of a sun - is splayed the Hawke of Hightown.

Varric realises it first, and nudges her under the table. She looks across the room and the amusement on her face fades into surprise, and then she relaxes again.

“Sebastian!”

“Aedale,” he says smoothly. If Fenris weren’t staring at her face carefully, he would miss the way she winces at the sound of her name in his voice . “I’ve been told you’ve come back.”

“That I have. Fancy a pint with us? Sorry about the fancy dress, I’m afraid that’s the norm here.”

The prince’s lips twitch. “Thank you, my lady, but I don’t drink.” _Why did you come here then,_ Fenris wants to snarl, but for the sake of Hawke he keeps silent. The prince speaks with an educated, strong Starkhaven that rolls over his words in a strange way. “I merely wanted to welcome you back in the city. Your mother has kindly told me that you went away, and so I waited.”

“You visited my mother?” A grin blossoms on Hawke’s face. Sebastian gives a polite bow. Against the scrubby, dim interior of the Hanged Man, his impeccably clean clothes seem unreal, and Fenris is suddenly keenly aware of the fact that his own armour hasn’t been cleaned for a week. “That’s very kind of you to keep the old lady company while her prodigal daughter runs about Maker knows where. Don’t tell her I just called her old.”

Fenris meets Anders’ gaze over the table. It is infuriatingly, disgustingly _familiar._

Sebastian laughs – a cultured sound. “I won’t tell on you, Aedale. On a condition.”

“Pray tell.” Hawke props her elbows on the table, chin resting in her palms, a picture of rugged innocence, and Fenris needs to look away. He fixes his gaze on the ale, determined not to look up.

He is not surprised by a hesitant silence. She’s flanked by her friends, sitting down like the makeshift queen of the city in her dirty leathers and muddy boots and hair only just about held back by Aveline’s headband - she borrowed it once, a long time ago, and never returned. She’s right at home, and in the midst of the people she loves. Sebastian’s clearly not. 

“Would you walk with me tomorrow? I enjoyed our meeting before your departure. I would be honoured to meet you again at the gardens of the Maker.”

“Anytime.” He hears the grin in her voice, and his grip on the mug tightens. “Just give me some time to have a bath, or the Grand-Cleric’s flowers might just wither on the spot.”

“I’m sure it was a difficult journey,” he says with a chuckle. “I’ll leave you to rest with your team, then. Would fifteen bells tomorrow suit you?”

“Just about enough time for a proper bath, yes. If I start now.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you at your mansion. I look forward to it, Aedale.”

“Goodnight, Sebastian.”

Steps, then an old, rusty click of the door. Fenris dares raise his head.

The table is pointedly silent. After a long moment, Merrill breaks the spell.

“So this is what a _suitor_ is. I was wondering. He wasn’t wearing a suit after all.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Kitten. They’re not usually like that.” Isabela pats her on the shoulder. “Sorry to break it to you, Hawke, but as much of a hunk as that guy is, he’s a boooooore. Gardens of the Maker? Seriously?”

She shrugs, her smile fading into something more thoughtful. “He’s got a type.”

Aveline watches her carefully. “This is unexpected, Hawke. Welcome, but still unexpected. Your mother would approve, but she’d tell you to be cautious with it.”

“You kidding?” Aedale snorts. “If mother finds out I let _a prince_ see me in the Hanged Man of all places, she’ll give me the lecture of the ages. Apparently I’m too dignified now to come here.”

There is considerable amount of silence from the male side of the table. Fenris is seething; Anders is sulking. Varric’s gaze courses from one to the other with a certain dose of sympathy.

“Hawke, you could work as a goat shepherd and you still wouldn’t be dignified enough for that.”

“Thank you, Aveline. You always know how to make me feel special.”

Bickering continues, longer and longer until it feels like pounding and drilling at the inner side of his skull. What was comfortable, relaxing, _happy_ now turns into an irritation, and he cannot stand it anymore.

He stands up.

“I’m going home,” he says, his voice hoarse. To his surprise, Hawke looks up to him and stands up too.

“Yeah, I need to get out of that armour. See you guys tomorrow evening for Wicked Grace?”

“And the smutty prince stories,” purrs Isabela. Hawke rolls her eyes.

“If only.”

Anders reaches out for his staff under the table. “I’ll walk you home, Hawke.”

“No need,” she replies before Fenris has a chance, and the face of the _abomination_ falls. They look at each other, and something wordless passes between them – something he’d miss, had he not listened to the dwarf’s tale. _She loves him._ “Clinic tomorrow morning?”

“If you can make it.”

“If I’m awake, you mean. I’ll work on it.” She flashes a smile, and Anders’ face smoothens slightly into something like peace. “Don’t stay up too long, _doctor._ That goes for all of you.”

They leave to the chorus of goodnights and make the slow climb to Hightown.

He’d never admit it, but he feels relief at the sight of familiar white limestone and grey granite, the tough and ancient bones of Kirkwall. There’s a place he calls his own somewhere in this rocky maze, amongst the air that’s become so cool and crispy that he can see his own breath. There’s a bath, a fireplace, an old comfortable armchair, and a nest of warm blankets that he’s fashioned into a makeshift bed: there is nothing else he needs.

Or at least he thought so. Before he saw her smiling at the prince.

“Fenris.”

He looks at her. There is something in her voice he doesn’t dare listen to.

“Why are you such a mess?”

He laughs. It’s dry and hollow, and utterly devoid of humour. “A wonderful question, Hawke. You should ask it to my makers.”

“You don’t have a-” Her voice tingles with frustration, but she stops mid-sentence and breathes, in, out, a long, calming exhale. “You’re doing that again.”

“Doing what?”

“Dehumanizing. You hide behind all that self-mocking. And I hate it.”

“I’m answering your question, Hawke. As precisely as I can.”

“No, you’re not! You’re _sadistically_ debasing yourself to make me feel like garbage. Do you get a kick out of this?”

“Why would you think that, _Aedale?_ ” He lets the name roll over his tongue in a thick Starkhaven accent. A grimace twists her face into something angry and ugly.

“What would I indeed? You quite obviously do.”

He’s angry too. “Pardon me, I didn’t realise we were comparing the sadism. At least I refrain from showing off my noble lover in front of lovers past.”

“Ah, _this_ is it! I’ll have you know that Sebastian has never offered anything he can’t deliver on. Unlike some men I’ve known.”

“Obviously,” he snaps. “And that’s why you make a face every time he says your name. A promise delivered. Could be inconvenient in bed…”

Seething with fury, she swings her hand to slap him–

Everything is suddenly submerged in cold, thick water, the world has slowed down and this is not happening, not happening, _not happening_ \- the reflex is immediate, he knows the pains is coming but if he ducks it will come again, greater, so he stays immobile and closes his eyes -

The pain never comes.

Her arm falls down limply, like a puppeteer’s string cut loose.

Her eyes are wide and terrified. “I’m sorry,” she whispers almost automatically, outside of herself, her face frozen in a mask of terror.

He stands there, mute and deaf, slowly opening his eyes to look at her through the air that seems thick and heavy as syrup, as icy water. A slave. A slave brought to heel.

She shivers violently. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry, Fenris. I’m sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry…” She reaches out, and he stays immobile as her hand is inches away from his face – but she hesitates, withdraws her hand – and in the silver nocturnal light he can see a glistening trail unravel on her cheek.

_Not again. No. Please._

In a sudden, violent movement that shocks even himself – her eyes go wide – he presses her palm to his cheek with his own hand.

The lyrium comes to life at her touch.

He doesn’t know how long they stand like that, frozen in time, her small hot palm trapped between his hand and cheek. Skin on skin – an impossible sensation, something he’s tried to forget, but it always comes back in the end, comes alive at her voice, her sight, her touch.

“I’m sorry,” she manages hoarsely and his heart breaks. Hawke, the unbound, spinning firestorm of change, looks so small and pathetic at his side that the world is somehow dimmed, as if a fog has covered it. And he’s made her so.

He should have left. He should have left long ago. After that night.

“ _This_ – this is the only way I can get close to you. When you’re so hurt that- that I-” Her voice breaks. He closes his hand over hers in a desperate grip, leaning his face against her touch. She’s right. There is nothing he can offer but hurt and violence and destruction and-

Her skin is hot under his in the crispy air of Hightown, and in a flash he remembers everything that he’s blocked for his own sanity: the way she arched under him and, raking her nails across his back, whispered _Fenris-_

…And the way the memories dripped away from him, the scrapes of identity he desperately scrambled to reach, slipping through his fingers like quicksilver and leaving him blind in the dark.

His hand falls down limply, letting go of hers. They face each other now, and after a long second Hawke withdraws; there’s hurt in her eyes, but no surprise at all, and perhaps this is what pierces him most painfully.

“We’re never going to talk about this, are we?”

He stares at her mutely. After three years he knows her face too well.

“I’m never going to ask more than you’re willing to give me, Fenris. I want you to know that.” She takes a careful step back, and he knows she’s treating him like a wounded animal now, like something barely domesticated, wild and unpredictable. “I care about you, I do. But I can’t-” Her voice thickens with frustration. “I can’t pine after you forever. I can’t get stuck in this.”

She’s unbound, she’s a force of change, and he knows that – but it hurts, it hurts, it _hurts._

“Command me to go, and I shall.” His voice is heavy with finality, and for a second he actually expects her to say yes: and for that one cold, crystalline moment he sees his path with terrifying clarity: running, hiding, fighting, until the slavers finally surprise him in his sleep…

Panic crosses her face. “No. Never. I won’t.” It’s a rushed, desperate staccato that cuts through his vision like a knife, and he remembers what she’s said to Isabela: _I have nightmares, you know._ “Your decision, Fenris. I won’t make you stay. But _I want you to._ ”

“But you can’t get stuck in this.”

“I- oh, to the Void with it, Fenris. You can’t do this to me. I want to know where I stand on this, I want to know what _you_ want, I want closure! And then we can be friends. Nothing changes.”

 _Everything changes._ “And Sebastian?”

She looks at him, and her eyes are steely. “You don’t get to reject me and then ask about Sebastian in the same breath, Fenris.”

“I haven’t rejected you, Hawke.” Despite himself, he closes the distance between them so he towers over her now. A cheap dominating tactic, and she knows: but he hears her breath catch all the same.

“No? Someone else must have walked out on me three months ago, then. Do you _want_ to be with me, Fenris?” Her eyes bore into his, and there is a fragility and hurt and some very real terror behind the mask of the steely bravado, but it won’t drop. “Yes or no. Simple question. No consequences.”

And despite the fact that _he_ is the one physically intimidating _her,_ he feels like the stone of Kirkwall has turned into quicksand. He _wants –_ but he _cannot –_

Freedom. And her. That’s what he wants. But without one, how could he ever have the other? Without certainty, with vengeance, with violence, he’s going to push her again and _destroy her –_ the echo of her cry, that night, sounds in his ears and he know he’ll go _mad_ if it happens again.

But the world _without_ her -   

“I can’t answer that, Hawke.”

“Yes. Or no. I swear to you I’m still going to kick any slaver ass that comes near you. I _swear_ , Fenris. Just give me closure.”

“I can’t.”

“ _Please,_ ” she says, the mask nearly slipping, and it’s almost more than he can bear. Her eyes shine, more blue than the sky, more brilliant than the stars over Sundermount, more precious than anything he’s ever seen, and he knows that the right choice would be to cut her free, but for some reason he doesn’t deserve these eyes have fixed on _him,_ and he’s too selfish to let go. “Just say no and I can move on. Please.”

He should. He should say no. He should leave. He should let her go and see her with Sebastian, see her rise up amongst the nobility, see her change the world and laugh at it as it revolves around her spinning firestorm –

“Don’t ask me that, Hawke.”

The mask cracks.

Hawke is in _anguish,_ there is no other word for the raw hurt on her face. She turns her face away from him, resuming her pace wordlessly, and for a moment, he’s too scared to follow.

“Business as usual, then.” Her voice is almost broken. “No certainty and no hope and no future.”

“You forge your own destiny, Hawke. Isn’t that what you believe in?”

“Yes, Fenris, this is what I believe in. I just hoped I wouldn’t have to do it alone.”

He looks at her back, a small frame of a young, fragile creature, and something too big for his chest rises inside him. It forces its way up his throat, pushing through it violently-

“I remain at your side.”

She’s at the porch of her mansion already, and she turns back to look at him; and there is an absolute emptiness on her face.

“Thank you, my friend.”

It _stings._

She disappears without another word.


	4. Harvestmere

 

What she said comes true: nothing changes.

Yet everything does.

They still travel together, and they still talk. She hasn’t stopped the teasing either, although it takes a while for it to return. But he knows her well enough to distinguish the easily hurdled barbs from the carefully calculated humour, an exercise in inclusivity rather than instinct; and her eyes dim a bit every time she looks at him.

He hates himself for not being able to let her go. A true dog in a manger, he thinks, dark fumes of self-disdain heavy and thick in his gut, making him so cranky and sharp that one night Isabela storms out of his mansion, stolen bottle of wine in hand, cursing him to the Void.

She comes back, eventually. When the bottle is already empty.

He picks up a bodyguard job at the Merchants’ Guild, and he doesn’t see Hawke for a week. There’s a note pined on the inner side of his door as he comes back the first night, and he can’t read it – after that night, after Hadriana, they stopped the reading lessons, and after three months the letters have almost slipped out of his mind. He burns the note in anger.

He regrets it later.

So he picks up the first book from the dusty shelves of the mansion, and slowly, torturously slowly, he makes his way through the preface – first on his own, then, swallowing the stupid pride, with the support of notes and doodles Hawke has made for him before. It takes _ages._

The book turns out to be a course of necromancy. He’s annoyed the entire day after that.

Aveline comes in one of these days, asking questions about the Qun. “It would be easier to keep order if we at least knew how to understand these beasts in the docks,” she says grimly. They talk, he explains the ideas behind _bas, basalin-an,_ and Viddathari, and though the guard-captain’s brows furrow with his every word, she seems gracious enough to learn that he thinks he might follow her example. So, when she is about to leave, he sends his pride to the Void and asks her whether she knows some _easy_ books to read.

She comes back with Varric, the dwarf grinning like a kid at Satinalia, and they both carry a handful of volumes. “Only the best, elf. Welcome to the vast and wonderful world of fiction.”

“What he means by ‘the best’ is that he’s written most of them.”

“False humility is a vice worse than farting in a crowded room.”

“Thank you,” says Fenris, clearing his throat. It’s unexpected, and unearned, and... kind. Especially that, without mentioning it at all, the dwarf tucked in a small brochure of ABC’s in between the pages. His ears burn with shame and humiliation when he finally stumbles upon it, but at least they’re not there anymore to witness it.

He’s grateful.

After that, he comes out to the Hanged Man more often. Sometimes Hawke’s there, sometimes she’s not; but when he starts spending time with the dwarf himself, he realises just how ever-flowing is the current of stories that Varric manages. He listens to the story of the Hero of Ferelden, and the unlikely band of travellers that she’s gathered for her quest; and it sounds so much like Hawke that they both have a chuckle. The dwarf tells him about the Blight, about the betrayal of house Cousland, the way the Witch of the Wilds saved the Grey Wardens from the defeat at Ostagar – and how the same witch, a dragon-shapeshifter, carried the Hawke family into safety not long after.

“Same woman?”

“Unless you think there’s a probability for _two_ Witches of the Wilds changing into dragons in one forest, yeah, I am damn sure that was the same woman.”

Fenris considers it carefully. He’s heard of the Hero of Ferelden, and he’s more or less aware of the ludicrous, utterly unbelievable story of how _a dragon_ carried Hawke to Kirkwall, but now it seems more to it. The dwarf isn’t in his playful-liar mode, he’s serious and seems as stunned by the facts as Fenris is.

Whatever is the purpose, chance, or _destiny_ of Hawke, it suddenly towers over him in something world-shattering.

“So the Queen of Ferelden…”

“And Hawke. They met in passing. She was going through Hawke’s village, short after Ostagar.”

“And then the dragon saved the both of them.”

“I know, right?” The dwarf nods to himself. “It’s like it all comes together somewhere for a bigger picture, but I can’t see it yet. Too little information. Or too much. But I’ll tell you one thing, elf, she’ll do _something_ to the world _._ And shit will go down.”

A shiver goes through his spine.

“On what scale?”

“Elf, if I was that good of a spymaster, I’d be shaking the courts of Orlais and Tevinter. I ain’t seen the future. But I’ve got this gut feeling that something’s going to happen.”

He understands. There’s an invisible net of information coursing through the world, shaping it and giving it its course, and Varric sits at the heart of it like a cunning spider. And sometimes the invisible threads shake despite the fact that there’s nothing in it, and that’s how they sense the wind…

Something’s going to happen. Something big. And Hawke’s destiny is interwoven with it, just as surely as the Queen’s. They both owe their lives to a dragon-shaped myth.

“Is she happy now, the Queen? Now that everything’s over?”

Varric regards him with a strange look. “ _You_ ’re a sucker for happy endings, elf? I’d never tell.”

“If they are earned.”

“Then of course she’s happy. The battle’s won, the Archdemon’s dead, her lover has become the King and the Couslands have never been higher. The struggle and sacrifice paid off. All’s good. The end.”

Fenris raises his eyebrows. “And the truth?”

Varric lets out a long-suffering sigh and takes a swig from his glass. “Again with the truth, elf. Just be glad with your happy ending.”

“I want to know. Isn’t that the whole point of telling someone else’s story?”

“Ha!” The dwarf chuckles. “Definitely not. You tell the story to inspire people, to make them feel like the world is a better place than before they’ve known it. And you tell it as a whole, the start, the struggle, the payoff. You give structure to history, and the way things work.”

“It’s nothing short of lying.”

“Of course it’s lying. Things are messy, elf. And they usually don’t _have_ structure. And to work out why something’s happened there’s usually an array of reasons and people and money and whatever else. But that’s what I do. I work out that reason, and I make it into something people can actually _understand._ The hero rises. The hero does the thing. The hero drifts off into the payoff land.”

“But does she really?”

“No.” He shrugs. “What do you think? She and her husband have got a country to run, and it’s devastated after the Blight. And she’s a Warden-Commander on the top of it. There might not be an outright war-and-extinction threat going on right now, but by the looks of it it’s not any bloody easier.”

“But she’s married to the other Grey Warden. Alistair. She’s not alone.”

Varric makes a pause and stares at him, his eyes laced with the swift intelligence that Fenris so often forgets.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “At least she’s not alone.”

 

-/-

 

 The merchants gossip like fishwives, and very soon Fenris is able to discern the exact story about Hawke and Sebastian from their chatter in between meetings. Years ago, word has come from Starkhaven that the ruling Vael family was murdered in a coup; the man stormed out from the Chantry, refusing to take the vows that he’d been meant for. Hawke hunted the murderers down and killed them; since then, they shared a passing friendship, but only after she has reclaimed her nobility and land did the fact become a matter of public attention. It was no secret that the prince was laying claims to the Starkhaven throne; and after the already well-famed Hawke shot through the staunch Kirkwall society like a rising comet, it seemed that the alliance between her and Sebastian would be a match of the century. Some merchants guessed that with Hawke’s influence over the Viscount, the march to retake Starkhaven with Kirkwall army was only a matter of time.

Political dalliance, thinks Fenris, the wave of jealousy and disgust rising in his throat.

He’s never properly met the man. Hawke mentioned him several times, mostly taking good-natured jibes at his devotion to the Chantry, but little beyond that. He knows that Leandra Hawke _loves_ the attention her daughter is showered in because of the prince’s intentions, and he can only guess that this is the primary reason of Hawke’s unusual compliance with the society’s demands. The years in poverty have left a mark on the elder lady Hawke – and the reclaiming of her family’s social standing, in which she reveres so much, has been made infinitely more easier with her daughter being courted by a prince.

He thinks he can understand Hawke’s will to strengthen the family’s name for her mother’s sake, but it still feels bitter – the unbound hero carried from the Blight on dragon’s wings, now trapped in the political games of the so-called _free_ cities. _The Hawke of Hightown_ suddenly sounds bitter: a bird of prey in a gilded cage.

Varric is at the meeting too, and two hours in, Fenris catches him yawning. The dwarf winks at him.

 

-/-

 

One afternoon he follows her into the Gallows. She’s coming back with more ingredients for Solivitus; he hasn’t seen her for a while, as she was out of the city again, with Merrill and Isabela and Aveline adding up to an all-lady team. The official reason for the guard-captain to leave the city is to investigate the dangers of Tal-Vashoth coastal bands; in fact, Fenris knows that Hawke all but dragged her out of the paperwork by force.

Now, with Aveline disappeared into the barracks immediately after they entered the city, Fenris is the one to take her place. Merrill and Isabela stay behind, talking in hushed voices as they enter the Gallows.

Fenris doesn’t pay attention to the templar outpost until he hears Hawke’s breath catch.

“Carver.”

“Aedale.”

The youngest surviving Hawke sibling is stationed with other templar recruits. The armour has done little to help his dignity; he just looks like a bear in a breastplate. He regards his sister with a mixture of irritation and awkwardness.

“Haven’t expected you here.” Pause. “How’s mother?”

“Good. She’s pouring her heart and soul into that party. She wants to call it a Winter Ball now, like those ridiculously overblown Orlesian things.”

“She’s throwing a party?”

Hawke rolls her eyes. “You should at least pretend to read these novels she sends you.”

“I got nothing.” Something like anger flickers in Carver’s eyes. “We _thought_ they filter our post.”

Hawke’s face freezes at that. “They do _what?_ Carver, she’s been worrying herself sick!”

“It’s not my fault! It’s not like I knew you’d write.”

“That’s it. I’m taking you home.” Lips pressed into a thin line, she grabs his shoulder forcefully. Carver recoils and wrestles himself free, eyes darting nervously to see whether the other recruits saw it. 

“Let _go!_ I’m not your pawn anymore, Aedale!”

“You’re my younger brother _,_ ” she growls. “No-one will mess with what I or mother send you.”

“I’m a _templar._ I will be, anyway. My life is with the order now. This isn’t Lothering, you can’t just try and drag me out of here like I’m five!”

Fenris clears his throat. “I hate to say it, Hawke, but your brother’s right.”

“Stay out of this, Fenris,” she snaps, and it feels like a slap. He takes a step back and, grimacing, gives a mock bow.

Hawke clenches her jaw at that. “How can you stand with them? Even now? They want to keep _mother_ away from you. You’re okay with that?”

“Look, this is not a perfect life, but it’s _mine._ I’m my own person here. And there are rules-”

“Rules that would make you turn back on your own family?!”

“You’d _know_ if I turned my back on you,” snaps Carver, and her face turns white.

She straightens her back slowly. Fenris looks at her and her brother: there’s a similarity there, the same sharp cheekbones, the same stubborn chin, the same proud way they hold their heads. But in her, they are steely, defined marks of power. In him, they get lost in the brute strength.

She is the Hawke of Hightown. He can be a chick at best.  

And he just threatened her.

“We shall see whether loyalty is more than just a Chantry virtue, brother,” she says, and the cold in her voice sends shivers down Fenris’ spine. Judging by Carver’s face, he feels something similar.

“Look, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t.”

“You know I wouldn’t- Aedale!”

But she’s walking away, her face frozen into a familiar mask of impassivity. As she passes Fenris, she pushes a small, smelly bundle into his arms.

“Get this to Solivitus. Thanks.”

With this, she’s gone, and Fenris is left with Carver who looks as if, on a clear sky over Kirkwall, there is one and only cloud that just decided to rain on him specifically.

“I didn’t mean it like that and she knows it.”

“Yes, you did,” says Fenris and doesn’t flinch when Carver sends him his signature scowl. “You wanted to show exactly how much power you hold over her.”

“When did _you_ get so sagely?”

“I made my own share of mistakes.”

Carver glowers at him. Then he sighs, his face shifting into something like regret.

“If you could just tell my mother that… I’m alright. That’s it. And that I hope her party turns out good.”

Fenris nods curtly. Then an idea pops up in his mind.

“Write to her.”

“I can’t!” Carver scowls, clenching his fists. “They won’t let me send it.”

“I’m going to the herbalist now. I’m coming back in a quarter bells, then I can take your letter to your mother.”

“You would?”

“I would.”

Carver gives a quick nod – he’s not smiling, but there’s an echo of his sister’s light in his blue eyes. He turns away with new energy and disappears in the quarters.

The herbalist is delighted at the new ingredients, and Fenris wonders briskly whether it really takes that much to excite a mage – a bunch of withered weeds, a smelly carcass of some small creature, and a little sack of bones. But the quality of his wares is impressive, and the gold that Solivitus hands him is heavy enough to make him feel slightly more gracious.

When he comes back, Carver hands him an envelope. It’s thin, and the address is written in thick, messy handwriting, but it appears sincere – and Carver himself looks as if something heavy has been lifted from his shoulders. They nod at each other and Fenris takes the next boat to the docks, and to his surprise Carver actually shakes his hand.

His fingers hurt a bit after that.

It becomes a habit. For the first time he brings the letter to Leandra Hawke, the lady almost bursts into tears; he is glad she doesn’t, in the end. But she smiles at him in a way that makes something warm stir around his heart – she’s so much like Hawke at that moment – and thanks him in a flood of words that sounds like more than he says in a week. He just nods and waits for her to stop.

Next time he just leaves the letter on the table in the main hall. He does like Leandra – it would be impossible not to like her after that warmth she offered him – but he doesn’t want Hawke to think that somehow he’s snaking his way into her household.

So he’s surprised when _Leandra_ is the one to knock on his doors the day after that. The horrified look when she sees the old corpses on the floor is _priceless –_ although not as impressive as the speed with which it smoothens into polite friendliness. Leandra Hawke is a true noble-born, and there is few things that she can be shocked by.

“My daughter tells me she will not play the messenger, so it seems I am at your mercy to deliver this to my son, serrah Fenris.”    

She hands him a thick embroidered envelope, sealed with two elegant marks of red wax: one of the house Amell, the other, newly drafted by the Viscount’s heraldician and portraying a simplistically drawn bird of prey, of the house Hawke.

“I will not break your trust, lady Hawke.” He bows, courtly customs easy and familiar on his tongue. Danarius liked his slaves well-learned.

Her face lightens up with a surprised smile. “You sound positively noble, serrah. Have you passed your time at any great courts of Thedas?”

“No, my lady. But I did serve in Tevinter.”

She laughs at that. “You seem to have a wit to match.”

“My sincere apologies.” His mouth twitches, and he wonders how he never really spoke to her before. She gives him another smile.

“No need, truly. If you’ve kept humour of any standard at all after spending so much time with my daughter, you must be exceptionally gifted indeed.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He does his best not to actually laugh, and by the twinkling in Leandra’s warm eyes, she knows. She seems pleased.

“Please tell my son I love him. And that he needs to come home soon.”

He gives another bow. This is different. Nobles of Tevinter are not even half as open with their affections, and in a split second he wonders whether this is one of the things that Hawke has inherited.

And so his time becomes punctuated by the regular coursing between the Hawke estate and the Gallows. Just like Leandra, Carver starts talking to him after a while; and he discovers that although he doesn’t share his sister’s dazzling wit, he is by no means slow. They mostly talk about Hawke, and Fenris is perpetually surprised by the fact that there is more than _one_ Hawke in the city, that someone would actually feel the need to address her by her first name.

One day Carver passes him _two_ envelopes. When he catches Fenris’ glance, he raises his chin high, as if waiting for the taunt.

“The other’s for my sister.”

Fenris casts him a passing glance. “I thought you didn’t speak.”

“Well, we’re both kind of short on siblings at the moment,” says Carver with a forced smile and Fenris doesn’t ask anymore.

The memory of Hadriana’s lies – _you have family. A sister._ – resurfaces in his memory again, and again, and again…

The next time he sees Hawke, she raises her head and looks at him directly for the first time in _weeks_ – and there’s warmth in her eyes. She gives him a soft, fragile smile, and his heart swells at the look on her face.

Then Isabela says something idiotic about the lewd shape of a cloud or something similarly dim-witted, and the moment’s broken, but he still treasures it in the long hours in the night when he just sits, stares at the fire, and _remembers._

He writes a letter.

It takes _ages,_ first for him to compose his own thoughts, then to write it down, then to smoothen it up and remove the mistakes. Three full days he spends on that thing. So it’s _infuriating_ to see how the dwarf goes through it in seconds.

“That won’t do,” he says curtly, and Fenris is annoyed.

“What would you have me write? A plea? A _threat_?”

“Something more personal would be nice, for instance. This could just as well be written by a tax collector.”

“Dwarf,” he spats, “I don’t _remember_ her. And this is all supposing that she is not a figment of imagination of a magister bargaining for her lousy life.”

“I’m not saying personal in _her_ context. I’m saying in the _you_ context. What you’ve been doing, what’s life been like. That sort of domestic shit family write about.”

“I was a slave. Then I ran.”

Pause. “Point taken.”

Varric picks up the letter again, skims through it once more, then folds it carefully and puts it inside one of many leather tubes piled up on the floor. His room at the Hanged Man is spacious, but the only truly occupied space seems to be the desk and everything around it; the desktop is buried in papers, littered with pieces of torn envelopes, and there are ink stains everywhere.

“I’ll send it along with the messenger. Maker knows how long it’ll take it to reach Tevinter, but if she’s there, they find her. There cannot be too many ex-slave Varanias serving under Danarius. And besides, they owe me one.”

“And now I owe you one, dwarf.” There is a sense of bizarre relief when he sees the letter disappear in the tube. He’s done his part – he’s reached out. Now, whether this _sister_ exists or not, for the next month or so he can have a peace of mind.

Varric chuckles. “That’s how the world turns. People owing stuff to one another. Anybody who’s ever been dumb enough to set foot in the Merchants’ Guild knows it well.” His eyes soften, and he stares at the window instead of Fenris’ face. “Honestly though. Don’t mention it. Think about it as one messed-up sibling’s gift to the other.”

Fenris remembers Bartrand well. He is wise enough not to say anything.

“You can buy me a drink, though.”

He relaxes. “You’re not my type, dwarf. But I can give it a try.”

“Ha! Angsty broody Tevinter elf tells a joke. Would you look at that.”

“I’ll have you know that no other than _Leandra Hawke_ praised my wit not long ago.”

“You’re just such a Hawke charmer, elf. Too bad it doesn’t extend to the rest of the world.”

“And that is exactly why no one buys you drinks anymore, dwarf.”

The tube disappears in the drawer, and as they walk down to the Hanged Man’s counter, he repeats _Hawke charmer_ to himself and laughs soundlessly.


	5. Firstfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Satinalia magic to brighten the day.

Another Satinalia comes and goes, and they spend it together.

There's fourteen of them in full: twice seven, or, according to Leandra, a lucky number. He's tempted to scoff, but she's hospitable enough to make him feel more gracious than usual. They're sat along a long sturdy table of noble wood, in what Hawke sarcastically calls 'the throne room' - a well-lit, spacious hall at the back of the vestibule, with the fire on the mantelpiece and a great, white-adorned Satinalia tree at the stained-glass window. The family mabari is present too, dozing off peacefully in front of the mantelpiece before it's time for post-dinner begging for snacks. It's warm, it's comfortable, and he might have had just a tad too much to drink because the world seems brighter and more happier that he  ever remembers it being. But right now he wouldn't care even if Leandra herself scolded him for successively emptying the glasses of warm, spiced wine - a Fereldan custom, apparently. He decides he's rather fond of it.

He's fond of many Fereldan things.

"...And so we walk into the hall, and Daisy is _shocked!_ And she goes," Varric's voice pitches up an octave, "Creators! Who dragged _these_ across the snow?!"

The table erupts with laughter - except Merrill, who just looks confused. Carver, seated on her right, leans towards her and whispers a couple of words. The elf shrugs.

"Well, they are massive pine trees with frost on the branches! What's a girl supposed to think?"

"This is a fine example of how ludicrous the human culture can get," agrees Sebastian with fully serious face, sparks of humour glimmering in his calm eyes. That elicits another round of snickering.

Hawke snorts. Her face is bright and open, smoothened into something like serenity, and Fenris can't look away even if he wanted to.

Maker bless Leandra Hawke. He's seated at the side of the table right opposite her daughter, with Merrill and Carver at his left hand and Varric at his right. Then it's Anders, Isabela, and Aveline; the abomination flanked by two of Hawke's loudest companions and effectively rendered harmless. Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana have a little corner for themselves; then Aveline is seated next to Leandra. At the other side, Gamlen Amell treats himself to another mince pie, satisfied enough with life at the moment. And then finally there's Hawke - in between her uncle and Sebastian, the prince's arm casually thrown around the back of her chair.

His mind wanders, replaying their earlier encounter. _I don't believe we've ever been properly introduced_ , said the prince, and extended his hand. _Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven_. His grip was strong and honest.

 _Fenris_ , he said, but the prince was waiting politely. So, with the pride stiffening his grip, he just went on with the first thing that was on his mind. _Of Seheron_.

_Seheron! Aedale told me many stories about her dear friend, but none of them mentioned where you were from! I've heard many stories about your island, one stranger than the other._

_Such are the tales of Seheron,_ he conceded against a friendly smile on Sebastian's face.

Dear friend. He is apparently Hawke's _dear friend_.

And because the wine and the warmth of her makes him bold, he presses his knees under the table against Hawke's soft skin.

She looks at him and on her face, there's incredulity and amusement in equal measures. "Having fun?"

"It's a good evening," he replies easily, and his bare foot slides against hers under Sebastian's oblivious gaze. She doesn't shift away.

"Satinalia brings out the inner child in all of us." There's barely contained laughter in her voice. "It's good to connect with it."

"Your inner child must be honestly exhausted by the constant attention it gets from you, Hawke."

"That little brat deserves it for all the acne and mood swings it gave me back in the day."

"I guess that's one thing about memory loss that I don't regret."

"Ha!" She laughs, and it makes him ridiculously proud. "Fenris, dear, sweet Fenris, count yourselves amongst those happy few blessed enough not to hate their prepubescent self. I was hitting on a blacksmith's son. A _blacksmith’s_ son."

She so rarely talks about Lothering that his ear twitches in curiosity.

"What's wrong with courting a blacksmith?"

"Oh, you know what they say about men with hammers," chimes in Isabela. Hawke shots her a challenging glance.

"They're blunt?"

"No, they can pound you into next w- _mphh_!"

"Pardon me, Leandra. I think I overheard a wench talking somewhere."

 

"No need, Aveline," says the lady of the house easily, waving a dismissive hand. "I too was young once."

"She ran off with an apostate," says Aedale in a scenic whisper. "Everybody always forgets that. She's all proper and motherly now, but _she ran off with an apostate_."

"Some things run in the family, evidently," snickers Anders under his breath, smiling fondly at the elder lady Hawke.

"So you were hitting on a blacksmith?" As much as Leandra's adventurous youth amuses him, Fenris is determined to hear about something from Hawke's. She grins at him and opens her mouth to speak, but Carver beats her to it.

"She set fire to the smithy."

"There goes my punchline. Must you ruin everything I do?"

"Gotta be quicker next time."

"Carver's still getting letters from the girl he bedded behind old Barlin's barn," announces Hawke to the table. "And she's yet to realise that everything we get goes through the motherly scrutiny of Leandra Adora Hawke née Amell."

Fenris chokes with laughter as the man at his side reddens.

"Well, Aedale once ended a date puking deathroot on the guy's shoes."

"Carver told a girl once that he was a werewolf and that's the reason the mabari imprinted on me instead. Because the dog was scared of the big bad werewolf."

"Aedale tried to enchant herself a flying broom and ended up making it scream like a banshee for three full bells. And then it exploded."

"Carver had _me_ write his pickup lines."

"You offered! And they were awful as demon and didn't work."

" _Children_ ," says Leandra amid the general amusement. Varric is scribbling furiously under the table, and Fenris _knows_ that this is going to feature in his next Satinalia story. He chuckles under his breath, as much at peace with the world as he'll ever be.

"Hey." Hawke says in low voice, leaning across the table towards him, her face shining. She moves her feet against his under the table. "Fenris. I never thanked you."

"For what?" He is suddenly breathless, blinking slowly as if he's staring at the very sun. She's _radiant_.

"For the letters. I was too stubborn to do it. And you didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

"Thank you." Her eyes flicker across the table, at the family - _the family_ , the realisation hitting him like a mind blast, not only the three Hawkes but all of them - gathered together along the table for fourteen. "For making this possible."

Maybe it's the wine. Or maybe he's just always needed to say it. His voice drops to a low, soft rasp, and he looks around - but Carver is too busy explaining himself to Merrill, Gamlen talks to Leandra, and Sebastian and Varric dispute the Hawke history before the Blight - and the words spill out, raw and unconsidered and sincere. "All I ever wanted was to make you happy."

Her breath catches in her throat. And if he ever doubted her - her feelings or allegiances - he has no doubt now, because her face is bright and open and _real_ and he discovers the true meaning of awe.

Then Sebastian's palm nudges her gently. "Aedale. Hey, Aedale. Have you _really_ flown in here on a dragon? I've heard the stories, but now Master Tethras would have me believe them-"

"Hey, Choir-boy. I think we're past this point. It's Varric now."

"Varric," he corrects himself, grimacing at the nickname. "Choir-boy? What is that supposed to mean?"

"It's his gimmick. He's inherently incapable of remembering people's names, so he invents his own instead." Hawke leans back on her chair, and Fenris tears his eyes off her face with a dull sense of loss, as if the world has gotten a little dimmer. But he can still feel her skin against his bare feet, and it feels so natural that it's scary. She’s not withdrawing from him. It’s not a rejection. It’s the- it’s the _opposite._ "I'm Chuckles, apparently. It's a joke because I'm serious all the time."

Sebastian laughs. "So I'm Choir-boy for my awful singing voice, I presume? Although Maker knows how you got that information, Varric."

"I had a hunch."

"So what's your nickname according to our storyteller, Fenris? _Fog Warrior_?"

He tenses for a second and reminds himself forcibly that the prince has no idea about his past, save just the fables of Seheron. "I think the dwarf's creativity dried out when it was my turn to get a nickname."

"You don't have one?"

"Oh, I do." His gaze flickers to Varric. "Dwarf.

"Elf." Varric mimics his tone  perfectly. Hawke rolls her eyes at Sebastian's incomprehension.

"It's their thing. I think they're just trying to make sure which is which."

"It's a difficult choice," agrees Sebastian seriously, and despite himself Fenris _likes_ him. There's no heat in his arm thrown around Hawke's chair. He's no rival.

 

-/-

 

The dinner passes almost too quickly - and as the darkness quenches the last lights of the day, they move out of the room, leaving the Satinalia tree unguarded. Even the dog is woken up and tugged out, against his clear displeasure.

"Come along, boy. Can't have you spook the Winter Spirit when he brings out the gifts."

Bodahn and Sandal approach her, and Fenris hears them first time that night. "I swear, serrah, this beast was not meant for battle. When we were travelling with the Queen, we saw the mabari tear hurlocks in half. This one just sleeps all day."

"Oh, he's vicious all right. Have you _tried_ taking away his rubber duck?" Hawke pats the dog's head. "You should try bathing him after we roll back from the Wounded Coast. He smells of corpses for days."

"Orana bathes him, serrah."

"Does she? And she still has both hands? Humph." Hawke casts a thoughtful look at the elven girl, seemingly content with standing at the door on her own, a serene calm on her face. "Whatever we're paying her, it's not enough."

Fenris looks at the small frame of Hawke's newest servant. It hasn't been half a year since Hadriana, but Orana seems to have understood quickly that she's safe - and she has been content with that, never asking for more.

He approaches her, and she inclines her head gracefully. "Orana."

"Serrah Fenris."

"Are you happy here?" he asks simply, without preamble. The girl looks at him for a while, and he thinks about all the times he was spoken to during Danarius' parties. Not all his guest were unkind.

She gives the same answer as he would have, years ago. "I am content, serrah."

"This is not what I meant. What do you want in life? What is your dream? The Satinalia here is different from the festivities in Tevinter. They celebrate closeness. And wish fulfilment."

She listens politely. "What would you have me wish for, serrah?"

For the first time, he feels the frustration that must have been a constant companion of Hawke since they met. "Your own desires, for starters."

A brief moment of silence.

"I wish for my father to find rest with the Maker," says Orana softly. Fenris lowers his head in silent anger at the injustice of the world, where old slaves were cut for blood, and the young were taught to apologise for their own grief.

 

"I pray he will, Orana."

"Thank you, serrah."

He leaves her and looks across the room.

Bodahn and Sandal have mysteriously disappeared - no doubt busy impersonating this year's incarnation of the Winter Spirit. Little clusters of conversation have formed across the vestibule, with Carver, Sebastian, and Aveline discussing the Chantry, Gamlen and Varric exchanging Hanged Man gossip, and an unlikely trio of Merrill, Isabela, and Leandra trying their best to remember the Satinalia songs. It doesn't help that between the Rivaini pirates, the nobility of the Free Marches, and a Dalish clan, they do not exactly have a common frame of reference.

" _Deck the halls with felandaris_ , maybe? It goes like this: deck the halls with felandaris, fallalala-"

"We don't deck our hallas. It'd get tangled in the branches."

"Halls, not hallas, Kitten _. What about this: Rolling down to old Llomerryn, Satinalia spirit in the wind and tide..."_

"That's awfully child-friendly of you, my dear Isabela."

"Ha! The next rhyme is 'backside'."

"You never disappoint."

But Fenris' gaze is drawn without avail to the last couple, standing in the back in the shadow of the Satinalia decorations. He snatches another glass of wine from the table and moves to casually lean against a column - far enough not to attract attention, but close enough for his ears to comfortably follow the conversation.

Hawke's face is covered in a glimmering array of shadows, cast by the artisan decorations and fairly lights across the vestibule. He suspects there's magic involved. Her eyelashes cast long shadows on her cheeks, her chin tilted down in contemplation, and in her red-and-gold family colours she looks so precious and so fragile that he has to remind herself that this is the woman that fought the Blight, that slashed and burned her way through the Red Iron, that earned the title of _basalit-an_ from the Arishok.

And after all that, the dwarf would have her present, _shining_ personality hang upon the man standing next to her: Anders.

He's close. Closer than he has any right to be. His head is tilted down too, his mouth at the level of her hair. They're not touching, but they look so blazingly _intimate_ that Fenris' blood boils. Anders' hair is down, he's changed his usual robes for something plain, simple, and civilian - and he looks smaller without the feathery mane, younger, less imposing. His face is hidden under the curtain of his hair.

 

Fenris listens.

"Father always said that the Winter Spirit is just a name for a powerful spirit of Faith. That the stronger we believed, the more influence we gave it on this side of the Veil. And the better the gifts would be."

"That's beautiful, Hawke." There's so much tenderness in Anders voice that it makes him cringe. "You grew surrounded by magic. It's no wonder that it loves you like it does."

She chuckles. "Bethany and I used to _constantly_ tease Carver about it. That we were going to bribe the spirit to give us better stuff and he'd be left with a ball of yarn or something."

"We did the similar thing in the circle for the youngest kids’ sake. We'd draw a summoning circle, light a hell of a lot of candles, and pretend that we were trapping the Winter Spirit inside until it agreed to get us the best gifts. The templars caught us once."

"What happened?"

"We were almost all made Tranquil before they realised it was a sham. I'll never forget the face of that knight that snatched the summoning tome from between us and then realised it was a Satinalia story collection."

Hawke laughs at that. "Did the youngsters get their extra gifts?"

"Yeah. We made sure. But after that, they started saying that the Winter Spirit is a harmful superstition exposing children to demon dalliances."

Hawke shakes her head. "Some people would honestly see evil everywhere."

"But not you."

"Not me," she agrees and looks up at him. "And not you either."

"Magic is beautiful. I see it through Justice sometimes, when we wander the Fade together. There are ruins of unbelievable things there, Hawke, like a civilisation torn apart that used to be so, so... _wonderful_. It beats everything I've ever seen in my life, every story even. And it breaks my heart that I'll never know what they used to be, because no-one ever studies it. They tell us it's evil, and they ignore this... this world of unimaginable wonder that we could have for ourselves if they only dared!"

"You're on edge, Anders."

Pause.

"Sorry, Hawke. It's the Solstice. It makes my skin twitch to feel the Veil so thin tonight."

"Satinalia's always been difficult," agrees Hawke, her voice gone quiet, and Fenris tenses up. "We used to have _family_ celebrations when we came here, you know. Just us, uncle, and Aveline. And the dog. Two pairs of messed up siblings, a veteran widow, and a homesick mabari in one Lowtown shack. I swear it was more about who _wasn't_ with us than who was."

 

"Is it- was it Bethany again? It can't have been easy, so soon after the Blight..."

"Yeah." Hawke's voice is soft and small. The warm wine in Fenris' mouth turns acidic with anger and jealousy. Hawke never talks about her sister. Never. "It wasn't just Bethany, though. It was Wesley and dad and just about all of the people we knew in Lothering. And for mother... She never came to Kirkwall for her parents' funerals. Even though she _knew_ that when we arrived, in her mind they were still at the Amell mansion. And suddenly  there was no mansion and no parents and no nothing. We had nothing. We _were_ nothing, as far as the city nobles were concerned. And every Satinalia was like reliving all those deaths and all those losses, again and again and again."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Shit, Anders, you think I don't know that? It's not like I could heal the bones to make good blood again. I was never a healer, and dad knew that. We did what we could but there was no way to save him, if it had been I'd have known! And _Bethany_ shouldn't have-"

"Stop, Hawke." There's an unyielding command in Anders' voice, and Fenris shudders with helpless anger that he even _dares_ – but to his astonishment Hawke obeys, keeps silent, letting out a shaky breath.

_She obeys him._

"You don't need to make those excuses. Not to me, and not to anyone."

"I had a responsibility."

"Hawke, people die on my clinic table every day. Good people. Innocent people. Bastards too, but mainly just regular men and women with terrible luck in life. They all come to me for help, for healing, and some of them get it, but the rest die. Were they my responsibility? Absolutely. But they are not my _fault._ "

Hawke lowers her heads and – Fenris needs to look away because his fingers are squeezing violently on the stem of the glass, and one second longer will crack it. For a lightning-quick moment he _wants_ to do it, he wants to throw the glass and wine into the _abomination’_ s skull until it cracks open like a nutshell – but as he calms himself with way too much effort and looks around, he sees the image of contentment and ease.

She touched him. She let _him_ touch _her,_ and she didn’t withdraw. Sebastian is a political partner and Fenris can understand that as long as there is obviously no true romantic intention behind it – which there isn’t. Fenris has reasserted himself clearly enough earlier in the evening.

But Hawke’s hand still rests over the hand of the _abomination_ , and that he cannot ignore. “Thank you, Anders.” 

“Hawke…”

“Yes?”

“Remember that amulet you gave me? I thought I should get you something too. In the spirit of Satinalia.”

“You’re playing the Winter Spirit? Give it a moment, all the rest of the presents is going to end up under the tree.” Hawke’s tone is light, but Fenris knows her well enough to hear her uncertainty.

“This is how we used to do it in the Circle, though. Face to face. We lost faith in the Winter Spirit pretty quickly, but we still had each other.” The quiet intensity of Anders’ voice is burning a hole through Fenris’ patience, and his fingers twitch. “Can I?...”

He sees Hawke shrug and smile. “It’d better be worth the pitch.” But then Anders’ hands find their way to her neck, encircle her, and- and-

“They always forget, you know. No-one ever notices an elf.” Merrill stands next to him, her gaze unflinching and unchanging as he all but _snarls_ at her. _What-! Stupid witch. Stupid, self-damning, senseless witch that would come in at this bloody moment-_ “But you shouldn’t have been listening.”

“This is no business of yours, maleficar,” he growls, but she doesn’t move away.

“It’s a problem in the city. In the clan, you just know everyone’s going to hear everything, so no-one hides. But if I overhear someone needing help in Lowtown and then then go and offer it myself, they think I’m a witch. Or that I’m spying on them. They’re just too loud. But I never _actually_ spy.” Merrill’s inane chatter is drilling into his brain, drowning out the conversation behind him, and he wants to scream of frustration. Hawke _thanks_ Anders behind Merrill’s back, then says something about enchantment… “But you do.”

“Get _away_ from me or I’ll remove you.”

“Leandra wouldn’t be happy about that. She thinks it’s going really well. And she wouldn’t be happy, too, if she learnt you were eavesdropping on her daughter.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snaps, and Merrill’s eyes flash.

“There’s always one like that.”

“Make sense, maleficar.”

“Someone always loves the Keeper. She’s strong, and she’s a leader, and she’s a gift like no other.” She takes a step away from him, and he turns away too, nursing his glass like a shield against crazy Dalish and abominations _._ “And she knows. But it’s a Keeper’s job to protect, and lead, and remember, for each one of the tribe. She can’t afford to love just one.”

With that, she leaves him.

But her words are true enough to _sting._

He forces his muscles to relax, leaning against the column in mimicry of that quiet confidence that Sebastian seemed to emanate. He’s just enjoying the wine and looking at entertained people without being forced to talk…

He realises that although he asked the dwarf about how Hawke felt about Anders – _love, yes, platonic love,_ platonic _love,_ he holds onto that word – he never asked whether the thing that she felt for _him_ was romantic. She loves her mother, and her brother, and Aveline, as reflexively as breathing – and she loves Anders, and perhaps she even loves Varric, and Isabela, and Merrill – _why would he think that he’s an exception?_

Why would he think that he’s _special_ if she loves him-

But there’s only one answer for that, there’s the memory of her lithe body under him, the ozone-like smell of magic boiling under the surface, his lyrium awake and electric with a million sparks as her hands skimmer along the tattooed lines… – and then, piercing this image, one question that freezes it all still: _who said you were the only one?_

No. No. This is horror. This is… _no_.

This _can’t_ be true.

But isn’t that what the _witch_ said - 

 _She can’t afford to love_ just _one._ So… his mind refuses to accept that thought, but he pushes through it with the force that feels like a rusty saw on his own mind, _how many? who?_

_Abomination?_

Someone’s hand brushes against his shoulder, and in a lightning-fast reflex he grabs it.

Hawke raises his brow at him. “My, you’re awfully jumpy tonight. Scared the Winter Spirit is going to come out and pounce you?”

“Hawke,” his voice is rough and desperate and he hates himself for it. But it could be the wine, or it could be something else, but if he lives any moment longer with this _terrible_ suspicion, he might just – he might – “I need to talk to you.”

She frowns. “Right now? We’re going to go check for the gifts under the tree. Can it wait for a bit?”

He hesitates, and when he does she just leans in and plants a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Come on. See if you’ve been a good boy all year.”

She slips away from his grasp before he’s able to react, and he doesn’t know whether the ease with which she kisses him is something to give him hope or – a confirmation of his worst fears.

 

-/-

 

He gets a pack of leather-clad books with promising titles, a bottle of excellent wine, a nice set of stationary, and a pack of armour cleaning paste with a boney-looking sponge that seems to have been expensive – no doubt Leandra’s doing. All in all, it looks more like a stack of possessions of a posh Hightown lord than what a hired sword can get for Satinalia, and Isabela teases him about it as they sit around mantelpiece aside the white-adorned tree – but he’s glad all the same. His own presents went well too; especially Carver seems fond of the sword sheath he’s found for him, Templar shape with the distinctly Fereldan carvings.

The night seems at the same time to last forever and end in a flash. Gamlen is the first to excuse himself, but without the usual biting sarcasm; then Varric and Merrill all but drag out drunk Isabela, her carolling still resounding along the streets of Hightown minutes later. Sebastian follows shortly, signing himself off with a courteous bow, a kiss to Leandra’s hand, and another one to Hawke’s cheek. Aveline lingers past midnight, but ultimately capitulates to her sense of duty – Leandra, Carver, and Hawke walk her to the door, talking in hushed voices, and they end up hugging awkwardly at the doorstep before the guard-captain disappears in the frosty district. The young templar follows her after a short moment, and Leandra hangs her head low.

But her daughter remains at her side, and even though Fenris cannot quite make out the words, they’re enough to pour energy back into the elder lady of the house.

Finally, the abomination also leaves.

“You sure you can’t be persuaded into another glass of wine, Anders?”

“No, but thank you, my lady. I have to keep my head clear for tomorrow. There’s always an avalanche of sick people at Satinalia.”

“Of course. Well, in that case we won’t keep you from doing good to this scarred world. It was a pleasure, doctor.”

The _abomination_ inclines his head slightly at Leandra and looks at Hawke expectantly. “Will you open the cellar passage for me?”

It’s an excuse and Fenris knows it. The key would have been just as easy. But Hawke nods, and his blood boils again with anger and uncertainty and the worst suspicion of all. _If they’re going to-_ “Sure. It won’t take long, mother. I’ll be back in ten.”

 _Not the greatest sex in the world, then,_ he wants to scoff, but he knows that he’d be the one unable to bear the sound of it. So he turns away to yawning Bodahn and serene Sandal, who both gave him masterfully enchanted bracelets, and makes conversation until it’s clear that the warmth of the fire and the spices of the wine makes them all too comfortable in their own little worlds. The conversation fizzles out in the warm room, illuminated by the mantelpiece and thousands of little flickering lights, like the stars hidden among the greenery of elfroot and felandaris, and he is reminded of the look on Hawke’s face at the dinner table: shining, brilliant, radiant.

The fire crackles quietly. 

In the end, they all leave. It’s been far longer than ten minutes, and if it were not for the wine in his stomach he would have been getting incredibly twitchy. Leandra casts him a passing glance as she picks herself up from the armchair. “Can I ask you to wait for my daughter, Fenris? Just tell her we all went to bed.”

There’s something unreadable in her voice, and he just nods. He is too tipsy and too warm and too emotional to see the layers of meanings in Leandra’s words for what they truly are, so he just saves them for later consideration. “Of course, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Like her daughter before, she brushes her fingers past his shoulders, and he supresses a shiver. “Glad we had you for this Satinalia, Fenris.”

“All pleasure is mine.” He discovers that he means it. Leandra smiles at him and nods her head in only the slightest expression of approval at his courtly tongue, and then – leaves.

He is alone.

The crackling of the fire fills his world. The house falls quiet; he can hear the quiet steps of Leandra walking up to the vestibule, then a click of the door. Then little to nothing over the sound of the fire filling the shadows, sounding along the Satinalia illumination.

A door to the cellar clicks.

But Hawke’s steps don’t come nearer, they beat their sharp staccato over the stairs and then further, over his head, to the library behind. He stands up soundlessly; the Satinalia lights illuminate the way. He follows her.

She’s slumped on the floor at the bookshelf, the armchair next to her left empty,

He grabs her arms, and she shudders – he feels the vibration of that in his bones. “Hawke. Don’t hide from me.”

“As if.” She laughs in his face, and he can feel how much wine it is in her breath. “You could hear everything, you bastard. You did hear everything.”

“You’re drunk.” He’s almost astonished. “How are you drunk?”

“Ever wondered why it’s called a _wine_ cellar?”

“Why, Hawke?”

She laughs again, her hands finding their way to his waist. “Oh, Fenris. Because there’s _wine in it-_ ”

“No. Why did you get drunk?”

“I am _not_ having that conversation sober.”

“What conversation?”

She makes a face. “ _The_ conversation. _This_ conversation here. The _we need to talk_ conversation you want. Now we can have it.”

He’s not sober himself, there’s been too many glasses of that warm spiced wine, but he’s still annoyed. “You won’t talk to me sober?”

“I talk to you sober all the time. And look where it’s gotten us. You eavesdropping on my private conversations.”

“Hawke…” Her fingers skim along his waist to rest on his hips almost as afterthought, as if it was the most natural thing to do. He slips onto the carpet alongside her, and she shifts so that their legs align; his hands move out of their own accord, from her shoulders to the gentle curve of her neck –

She closes her eyes, and he knows she wants him to kiss her.

But he _can’t –_ not with this terrible uncertainty that suddenly freezes his insides. “Have you done this with anyone else?”

She smiles, not opening her eyes. “Yes,” she murmurs. “With a tattooed elven man, months ago…”

“Hawke.” He pulls away, and she recoils, and her eyes are suddenly so wide that a shudder goes through him, but he cannot stop, not right now. “Have you slept with Anders?”

She freezes in his arms.

Then pulls away so violently that all his frozen insides _shatter._

“Every time,” she says with cold, violent, drunken fury. “Every time I think you’ve understood. Every time. Why are you such an _idiot?!_ ”

 He scrambles to regain his balance and reaches out, but she pushes him away. He falls back against the armchair’s side, rejected and lost and _broken._ Of course she had. She’s slept with him, and Isabela, and probably Merrill, because how else the elf would have known it? She _loves_ them, she loves them all, and it’s only natural, and it was just something so obvious that it took an utter, absolute _idiot_ not to see and understand what it was between them, just another lost soul to bring home – she loves _him_ too, of course. Of course. How could he ever thought that he’d be _special?_

He will leave. He will leave as soon as he can get out of this mansion, and he will never see her again because he will never, ever allow himself to feel like that again-

“I _haven’t._ I haven’t slept with Anders. But maybe I should! Maker knows he would be more gracious about it than-”

He pushes her to the ground and kisses her.

It’s violent, it’s angry, it’s desperate, and it feels so much like _the last time_ that he is almost lost in it, and when she bits his lip and forces her tongue down his throat he growls, a deep, primeval sound of danger and want and desire and – she gasps for breath, and her fingernails rake across his back, and suddenly his shirt is the most annoying thing in Thedas.

But when he draws away from her to shrug it off, the reality crashes on his head –

Anger. Frustration. Desperation. Violence.

_No. Not again. Please, no. Not again._

He falls down on the floor beside her, hands covering his face.

“Fenris.” There’s an echo of desire in it, and a slight drunken drawl, but it’s all drowned in  pure unabated _panic._ “Fenris, have I done something wrong? Shit, I’m sorry – I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry… please, talk to me. Fenris!”

“Nothing’s wrong, Hawke,” he answers throatily. “ _I’m_ sorry.”

“No. No, no, no, no, no, please, don’t do it again. Please. If you walk out on me right here, I- I won’t-” Her voice cracks, and she grabs his shoulders forcefully, turns him so he’s lying on his back under her now, pries his hands away so she can see his face. But that means that now he can see _hers,_ and it’s torture. The pain, the panic, the fear – and he’s done it again, he’s done it _again,_ out of all the things that he promised himself not to do…

“Please, Fenris. Please talk to me.”

“This is all I can offer you. “ His voice is low, husky, broken. “Only the violence and anger. I don’t have anything else to share.”

“That’s not true.” She leans in to kiss him, but he turns his face away. “I’ve always known you hoard so much of that. I don’t mind. I can take it. But there’s so much more about you, Fenris, there’s all that pride and all that gentleness and you carried my letters and you said… you said yourself… you wanted to make me happy, were you lying today? Were you?” Her eyes bore into his, shining and unyielding, if slightly unfocused. He can’t look away.

“Would it help you if I said yes?”

“Are you planning on leaving me? Again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, fucking _find out!_ Because I can’t do it anymore, Fenris!” She pins him to the ground, and he’s very aware of the length of her body pressed against his, small and taut and strung in anger and something else. “I want to be with you! I want _you,_ but you’ve known that for all that time, and you get so jealous – so do you just want me not to be with _anyone,_ so no one can have what you don’t want? You push me away and then pull me back and then push me away and… I can’t. I can’t do it.” She lets out a long, laboured breath. “But I’ve already told you all of that and it didn’t work.”

“I wasn’t lying, Hawke.” His words are heavy, and they hang between them like an anchor.

“So you want to make me happy.”

“Yes.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“By staying away.”

She laughs – but it’s a dry, empty, cold sound. “Good luck.”

“I can’t-” He struggles with words. “Being with me won’t make you happy, Hawke.”

“Why don’t you let _me_ decide? I know you’re not a prince charming, I’ve got my other one for that. But I’m strong enough to take it. All that darkness and anger and whatever else you’re terrified of. _I can take it._ ”

“Strong enough to see me go for the second time?”

“I won’t let it _be_ a second time. If you let me. If you only let me.” She rests her forehead against his, a tiny little gesture, but it’s loaded with meaning he will not, cannot decipher. “Please let me.”

He breathes out.

“I’m _amnesiac,_ Hawke. And if it comes back again, I’ll- I can’t. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.” He should leave. But she’s pining him with her own weight, and although he can stand up easily, a small, masochistic part of him treasures the warmth of her body more than his own sanity.

“What happened? What _actually_ happened, did you get flashes of those memories when we were having sex? Did they come later? I need to know. I don’t want it to ever happen again.”

He suddenly feels very cold. “You don’t want me to recover my memories?”

“Shit. No, this is not what I mean – I want you to be able to _keep_ them, not just have them scrambled for that moment or… Fenris, you know what I mean.” She sighs, and he feels her breath on his lips – an indirect kiss. “I’m too drunk for this. Why can’t we just yell at each other and have angry make-up sex?”

The very thought of it makes his skin go aflame. “We tried it the last time. It didn’t work.”

“I guess so.” She nestles herself against him with a deep sigh, resting her head on her chest. “No sex then. I don’t mind. I just… can you stay with me tonight? And just talk. Nothing else. Just talk.”

He doesn’t dare breathe.

“Just talk?”

“I promise.”

He looks for excuses, for reasons why it isn’t right, why it’s not healthy either for him or for _her,_ why he cannot let himself do that – but he can’t find any. And Hawke sees it on his face, and a shy, hopeful smile lights up her features, and he’s _doomed._

He _wants_ to stay.

“Will Sebastian mind?”

“Screw Sebastian.”

“Have you?” The words run out of his mouth before he can stop them, but this time Hawke only shrugs.

“What do you _think?_ ”

He lets out a deep breath. And then, surprising himself with how natural it feels, he loops his arm around her so her head now lies at the crook of his shoulder. She shifts against him, her hand skimming across his chest to rest on his heart.

He feels the steady pounding of it against her palm, and the world slowly drifts away in that firm, undulating rhythm.

He’s there. She’s there. It’s more than he’s ever dared hope for.


	6. Haring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holidays are always an opportunity to talk things through.

They do talk. It’s not easy, but no more difficult than not talking. They’re lying on the carpet in the dark library, the Satinalia light shining and twinkling above their heads, and he’s – his heart keeps beating steadily under her hand, and they’re not yelling, not hurting each other, not angry, not violent, not in pain. They just lie there, her skin warm against his, and they talk.

Hawke speaks about Anders and for the first time, he listens without sneering. She guides his hand to her chest and gently closes his fingers around a little figurine on a silver chain. His lyrium tingles at the touch.

“ _This_ is what you eavesdropped on. Can you feel it, how strong it is? Anders and Sandal made it for me, and it’s _amazing._ It’s like a rechargeable healing bomb. You fill it with spirit magic, and then, if you’re hurt during battle, you release all that energy. It’s not going to mend you perfectly, more like patch up the basics, but as far as first aid kits go, this is just awesome. They must’ve spent weeks tweaking the rune to enchant it.”

“This is what he gave you?”

“Yes. He’s a healer. He helps people.”

He swallows a scoff. “It’s a powerful enchantment.”

“It’s in the shape of a mabari, too.”

His lips curl into a slight smile. ”How Fereldan of you.” He lets go of the necklace, trailing his fingers alongside her cleavage, along the gentle curve of her neck, and she lets out a small sigh. He revels in the fact that he’s able to touch her so freely.

It’s touches and stories, and stories and touches, and he finds himself retelling the plots of Varric’s books into her hair. She’s impressed that he keeps reading and writing; again he wants to scoff and accuse her of patronising, but again he bites his tongue. She’s here; and she is soft, and warm, and when she trails a delicate line of kisses along his cheek he does not protest.

He asks about the blacksmith story.

“Ha!” Her laughter is open, unrestrained in her surprise. “You jealous of that too?”

“I know very little about your life before Kirkwall, Hawke.”

“Same. I’ll trade you the blacksmith for something of yours. Make it good.”

“Very well. Go on.”

“Back in Lothering, I used to hang out in the smithy a lot,” she starts off, propping herself up against his chest with one elbow, the other skimming across the side of his face, and he would be blind if he didn’t see the outright tenderness on her face – at him, or at the memory. Perhaps both. “You know, fire’s my thing. And Toby… Toby was nice. He was a bit older, big strong hands, a bear type of a guy… So I used to make things easier for him in the smithy so he’d get done with it and have more time for loitering with me. Little things. Like keeping the iron hot enough, or the fire high enough. So it’s always been on the back of my mind. And this one time… he was working on something especially delicate, can’t remember what, but I was helping him out quite a bit… and we were having this perfect fairytale moment, hands meet on the table, we’re close, and he leans in to kiss me.” Hawke makes a pause. “Next thing we know, everything is on fire.”

“You did it?”

“I didn’t mean to! I just got overexcited.” She makes a face at him, then breaks it and laughs. “That thing he was making, it turned into liquid. I was banned from the smithy after that.”

“Because you liquefied his work?”

“No, Fenris, because I was a _mage._ They wouldn’t tell on me, they knew my father, but they’d still be terrified.”

Her tone softens, and she shifts back onto the crook of his arm so he cannot see her face. “You can imagine how it is to live your entire life as something people fear.”

This is turning into the conversation they’ve been having too many times, and he is sincerely sick of it. So he doesn’t start. Instead, he closes his eyes. “I can, Hawke.”

“I know.”

“There was a woman,” he says after a long pause. “When I was crossing the Vinmark, slavers hot on my heels. I was never more than a day away from the pursuit. There was a woman that lived at the foot of a mountain, just on her own. She hadn’t seen other people for weeks, and she seemed so starved for company that it didn’t even occur to her to fear me. It turned out that she’d erected the shack herself, after her merchant daughter got lost crossing these mountains. For twenty years, she had been waiting for her to return.”

“What happened?”

“The slavers found me. I fled, but they slaughtered the woman.” He stares at the ceiling, unmoving, but Hawke closes her hand over his.

“I’m sorry.”

“I saw many people across Vinmark. Every time I saw a merchant, I wondered whether it was the daughter coming home after all those years, only to find her mother dead.”

“Toby is dead too.” Hawke’s voice is hollow. “If you want to go from childhood stories to gloom and doom.”

He squeezes her hand, and they lie in silence for a long moment.

“Was it the Blight?”

“Ostagar. He enlisted with Carver.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

He looks at her. And there’s something in her eyes that makes him say that, to break the line of death and mourning with something that could at least bring hope.

“I’ve written to my sister. Varric is certain that if she does exist, his messengers will find her.”

Her face brightens up. “You have? Fenris, that’s fantastic! You never told me you were going to, I thought you were just sick of the thought. What made you change your mind?”

“Carver. And you.”

She squeezes his hand again, hard, and she doesn’t say anything, but he can see everything in this radiant, shining blue, illuminated by the tiny little specks of Satinalia lights reflected in her eyes.

In the end he carries her to bed. He knows the way, and this intimate knowledge makes him deeply, secretly proud. She’s light in his arms, with half-lidded, drowsy eyes, but her slight smile stays in place when he carefully puts her down – she sinks into the soft mattresses – and then it widens into a full-blown, beaming grin as he slides down next to her. There’s no electric heat in that touch, there’s warmth and safety and – _serenity._

Hawke’s hand is an anchor as he slips into a dreamless sleep, his heart beating a steady rhythm under her touch. 

 

-/-

 

They’re not _together._ At least it doesn’t feel like it. When he wakes up, she’s there, and she stares at him with face shining with so much happiness and relief that he finds himself hating his previous self – that man that made her doubt in the first place. They have breakfast together – foreign concept, but she laughs at him for pointing it out and all but shoves a hash brown into his mouth to shut him up – but then he leaves, and when they see each other in the evening at the Hanged Man, it looks and feels _normal._ He sits at Varric’s side, she’s slumped over Isabela. They just play cards.

But there’s no urgency, no dramatic undertones, no searching for double-entendres. He doesn’t know how this – this _thing_ is going to fit into their daily lives, but it doesn’t feel like anything’s changed at all.

It’s good. It’s easy, it’s good, it’s comfortable, and he _relaxes_ into it, and Hawke doesn’t seem to ask anything more than he’s willing to give. And for him, for now – this is it.

He follows her home sometimes, and if he’s feeling brave, he snatches a kiss; sometimes she touches his face, a soft, lingering, tender brush. When they talk, or read, or just sit together alone, their knees are pressed close against each other, drawing warm and comfort, but very rarely anything more; and she’s smiling, she looks at him and she’s smiling. So sometimes he kisses her, and sometimes he doesn’t.

But mostly they talk.

He talks about his run from Tevinter across Free Marches. She talks about Lothering and Ferelden, reminiscing names and faces with fondness he barely recognises on her face. One evening she tells him about her father, and he imagines a world where _Hawke_ was a tall, broad-shouldered man, and the small creature nestled against him was just someone’s daughter, something to protect. He tells her about Danarius’ household, the quiet camaraderie between the slaves, the in-house gossip, the fear that they had all grown used to that it was just a part of life. He recounts his early training with the markings when the lyrium was still fresh and singeing inside his skin.

She tells him about the Blight, about Carver leaving to Ostagar, and the army crashing and burning against the unstoppable tide of darkspawn. Then, her voice trembling, she tells him about Bethany.

“She was seventeen. You can’t even marry at that age. And she was sweet, and she was kind, and she did spirit magic, not this elemental chaos that I have. And she was… she was _good,_ Fenris, good without thinking, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, she never questioned what was right or wrong, it was just so obvious for her that some things are worth doing and some are not. She was my moral compass, Fenris. Someone I could trust with everything, and a mage too. Without her, and without father…”

And suddenly he understands. “You turned to the _a-_ to Anders.”

“He reminds me of her so much. Not all of him, but… the way he didn’t even think twice of opening that clinic. And that he’d never even think about abandoning it, for nothing. He’s got a good heart, Fenris.”

His sneer runs away from him before he can stop it, and he clenches his fist around her shoulders. “Let’s hope I shall never find out.”

She looks at him disapprovingly, but it’s one of the things that require compromise. And so she doesn’t scold him, and he doesn’t go any further.

As far as he is concerned, Hawke can keep his idealised version of the _abomination_ if it makes her happy. If anything happens – _when_ something happens – Fenris will be there to stop him. Magic is a part of her that he doesn’t understand, but it’s a large part, and he cannot bring himself to _hate it –_ to despise something so intrinsically _Hawke._ She can have her pet mage as a confidant.

As long as he stays a confidant only.

They change the subject, and she talks about the rising tensions between the Chantry, the Viscount, and the Qunari; a cursed three-way power play doomed to backfire.

“This _Mother_ Petrice… she’s disgusting. I’ve always known there would be problems with her, but this is more than I ever thought she’d be capable of. I mean, of course it’s her doing. I can smell that Chantry incense all over. And she turned over her own pawns now.”

“If there’s anything I hate more than the mages, it’s those in power using their men’s death to further their own agenda.”

“I know!” She stirs in his arms, restless. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like this templar scum didn’t _deserve_ to die. After I saw what they did to those Qunari… There weren’t battle wounds, Fenris, it was cold-blooded torture. It was _evil._ But this Varnell knight was only a pawn, and Petrice was the one playing him. She’s just too smart to get her motherly robes dirty.”

He nods. “It will not end well.”

“No,” she says with a deep sigh, “it won’t.”

But for now – for now the fragile balance is still kept.

Firstfall passes without much change, except for the frost gathering in the city’s stone after each night. They travel, fight, talk, and play cards together; every once in a while a minor crisis arrives, but Fenris has long since stopped keeping track, as Hawke seems to be capable enough to keep everyone in check. And so they scout Lowtown, travel around Vinmark, make their way through the gangs of the Undercity, and then inevitably end at the Hanged Man. His friendship with Varric grows warmer as the dwarf realises he’s the only one so keenly focused on his writing; Isabela often joins them too, but over time her visits grow shorter and further between, as the pirate becomes increasingly flighty and paranoid. When he finally asks why, she all but _yells_ at him; then he shrugs and lets it go. Hawke frowns when she hears of it.

They spend one full immeasurably satisfying week hunting down the slaver lairs, and after that he’s blooded, dirty, and incredibly tired, but satisfied beyond belief. His good mood holds for days, and Hawke beams every time she looks at him; their stolen kisses grow longer and more heated, lingering touches change into hands twisted in her hair and her teeth on his skin and once – for a short moment – he feels like he might be breaking through the barrier that he’s so consciously put up. But then Hawke lets go of him, and steps back – and then reaches out for his hand, placing it at the left side of her chest.

He feels the rhythm of her heart under his fingers, and he understands. _She won’t make a move. She’ll force the choice back into his own hands._

He won’t dare.

Not just yet.

She doesn’t push him, and doesn’t come to see him that night. He’s glad. There’s fire in his mansion, and a bath, and a pile of blankets and books, and – if it’s a choice – he likes being alone.

They’re not together. But they’re also not apart anymore.

He’s watched her for a long time, and admired her, cared for her, fought alongside her – but it’s only now when he realises he hasn’t _known_ her, not really. There’s a world of things about Hawke that he is only now discovering: her hopes, her doubts, her memories, all shaping her mind and choices just as firmly as the leathers shape her figure. He’s stringing together a composite of it all, and slowly his picture of her begins to fill – strength rooted in fear of failing a self-imposed responsibility. 

And he finally understands why she’s so fragile, why she _needs_ to be so fragile. Because a someone grown into strength and unwavering, no matter how strong, would have broken by now – the wild winds smash and shatter even the hardest rocks. She’s not a rock, she is – she’s a bird thrown into the hurricane, flung by it, but she doesn’t fight it.

(He’s suddenly reminded of the way she defeated that pride demon – her staff down, her arms lowered, she’s not fighting, she’s laughing, taunting… and the demon bellows in rage and charges at her – _and she moves._ ) 

She knows how to lose. She lets the tempest carry her, and she changes it into her own force.

And she’s built her nest at the top of a mountain, where the winds are toughest, but when the sky is clearest… _Hawke of Hightown._

He’s drawn out of his musing by the view of Hawke slipping on the frosted mud and falling off the Lowtown stairs with a string of curses. As he rolls his eyes and follows her, he concedes to himself that his imagination might have taken him too far.

“These are wrong shoes for the weather.”

“Well, screw you too. I like them. They’re comfy.”

“One of these days, you’ll slip right into the bay.”

“I _thought_ it’s an elf thing, bathing naked in the moonlight.”

He smirks at that, pulling her up, and just simply forgets to let go. “Play your cards right and it just might be.”

“Promises, promises.” Her eyes twinkle.

Varric clears his throat loudly, and they let go and follow him. But Hawke grins to herself, and he cannot help but do the same.


	7. Wintermarch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for Leandra Hawke's party.

They don’t talk about Sebastian.

As Firstfall changes into Haring, and Haring into Wintermarch, days flowing by faster than ever – faster still now that he’s the closest he’s ever been to _happy_ – the day of lady Leandra Hawke’s Winter Ball is drawing near. Through Varric’s strategic gossip, everybody’s talking about it. The Viscount is attending, his son is too, apparently unaccompanied – and therefore every blue-blooded lady of Hightown is sending her unmarried daughters too, in the hopes of wooing the enticingly eligible Seamus Dumar. But the chatter around Seamus isn’t nearly as vibrant as the one surrounding the scandalous _Hawke_ ’s partner – the infamous heir of Kirkwall’s youngest noble house is rumoured to attend the ball alongside her royal lover, prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven.

He ignores the rumours. Sebastian’s vows may have never been sworn, but the man is still devout enough not to lay with a woman outside of wedlock. He might be a frequent guest at the Hawke estate – thanks to his upper floor windows, Fenris knows exactly how frequent – and his courtship of Hawke is a well-established fact, but he never lingers past the time that’d be considered _decent._ Leandra is usually at her daughter’s side as they bid him goodnight, further reinforcing the notion that nothing scandalous is happening – but the fact is that, as of now, Hawke and Sebastian have been… involved for almost half a year.

He’s not _jealous,_ but he’s annoyed.

Customarily, at this time an engagement would be announced – Wintersend is traditionally the right holiday. The rumour has it that this is precisely what the ball is for.

He doesn’t think so, but does not dare ask all the same.

At the specific request of Leandra, he’s invited – so a couple of weeks before the ball he pays a visit to the guard-captain and, after a series of uncomfortable questions and a considerable amount of smirking on Aveline’s part, they go to the tailor. Being measured is uncomfortable, and he glowers at the man until he flinches, but at least the choice of fabric is easy enough: black. Aveline adds some white and silver – he’s come to trust the guard-captain’s taste, so he does not object. The robes turn out expensive, but… acceptable.

When he comes back to the mansion, he enters one of the chambers he’s never been to before: the dressing room. There are still dusty magister’s robes hanging in the wardrobes. He throws them all out and burns them with no small amount of pleasure, residual magic sparkling in the air; then he puts his new tailcoat on a salvageable hanger and places it there instead.

There’s a great sense of satisfaction in it.

The day before the ball he doesn’t see Hawke at all; she’s flung around by her mother, fixing everything that still needs last-minute fixing, orchestrating the swarms of workers that pour in and out of the estate, followed by long rows of cooks and servants. There’s a feeling of anticipation in the air, as if the entire Hightown is waiting with bated breath: it’s Wintersend tomorrow, the winter ends, the spring arrives, and the weddings of the new season will be soon announced. It’s still frosty, but there’s a change of wind, a suggestion of fresh flowers in the air – something new is coming. _Spring_ is coming. He can barely sleep.

Finally – _finally_ – it’s Wintersend. He dons the coat, in a feat of valour ties his own jabot, secures the pleated waist sash, and goes out into the explosion of colours that the Hawke residence has turned into.

It’s called Winter Ball after the Orlesian celebrations, and the white, crystalline decorations that adorn the mansion give the name its proper justice. But Leandra’s intention was made clear in the way the garlands of flowers spring from under the ice, wreathing gracefully along the lines of the vestibule, around the railing, and bursting even from a ginormous crystal star that the chandelier has now become. Winter is acknowledged, but affirmed as a thing of the past; spring is here now, with all its new life and new vigour, and the flowers are red like Hawke’s own fire and golden like their hard-won wealth – and they all come together,  wreathing net of vines swirling around the titanic coat-of-arms at the top of the gold-adorned staircase. Every little bouquet, every corner is marked with the crest. The message is unmissable: the winter of the house Amell is now lifted with the new splendour of house Hawke.

There’s so much light and colour in the estate that he is momentarily blinded. He admires the power of the implicit message: no speeches would make it so abundantly clear to everyone that enters.

But then his eyes adjust to the brilliance of the hall and he spots her - and his heart stops for a second.

He can see her radiantly blue eyes shine from all the distance between them. She’s wearing simple colours: her hair is black, her skin is pale, and there’s a red ribbon tangled in a braided wreath around her temples, an ornate reminiscence of the headband she’s stolen from Aveline long ago. And her dress is red too, a plain, sleeveless gown, long enough to make her stand taller than usual; the way it slides over her gentle curves makes his mouth go dry. He’s seen her in her smallclothes, covered in dirt and blood; he’s seen her in hard leathers, and in her evening clothes, he’s seen her _naked,_ but he has _never_ seen her dressed to impress. And – and it’s working. Her body is lean and muscular; her face shines with pride; and when she turns, revealing a deep cut at the back of the crimson dress, there’s a golden-embroidered emblem of the house Hawke on her back.

Then he notices Sebastian.

 _Of course_ he’s next to her. He’s greeting the incomers too, every inch the man of the house. There’s an emblem of the house Vael on _his_ back, and only an idiot would miss the obvious message it sends. Leandra is behind them, flanked by a group of ladies looking like colourful hens, and positively _beaming_ with every look at her daughter _._

“Fenris!” He turns around, and sees Carver in his ceremonial armour. The youngest Hawke has a haunted expression, features laces with confusion. “Thank the Maker. This is some kind of nightmare.”

“Not a fan of courts?”

“We’re bloody farmers. What do _you_ think?” Carver looks so ridiculously out of place that Fenris supresses a smile.

“Why did you come then?”

The templar grimaces. “I had a heart to heart with the knight-captain.”

“Ah.” Fenris understands. With the Viscount, Grand Cleric, and the prince of Starkhaven in the same place, having a templar in, even if just a recruit, was a significant strategic choice. “They asked you to spy on your sister.”

“Pretty much, yeah.” He shrugs, a gesture identical to what Hawke would do. “It’s just a party. And mother was glad. And since I was invited anyway…”

“Are you going to do it?”

“You kidding?” Carver casts him a sour glance. “As if she ever let me know what she’s actually up to. You’ll probably know more than me.”

Fenris supresses a smirk again, and wonders how much of their… informal _arrangement_ Hawke has shared with her brother.

“It’s just a party.”

“It’s going to crash and burn if Aedale’s touched it.”

“Better enjoy it while it’s still intact, then.”

Carver glowers at him. “Enjoy? This? This is a peacock festival, nor a party.”

“Templars marry, don’t they? Perhaps you can find someone suitable in here. It _is_ Wintersend after all.” And, before the man strangles him, he adds, “And there’s always wine.”

“Elf! Junior!” A familiar voice shoots through the crowd and Varric approaches them, shutting off Carver’s annoyed repartee. “If someone from the Merchant’s Guild asks, I was never here and you never talked to me. Been running from those nug-humpers all afternoon.”

“Maybe if you answered your letters sometimes, dwarf…”

“You know the day I start answering letters will be the day Andraste’s sacred pissin’ urne dances a tarantella, elf. Sorry, Junior, let me know if my blasphemies get too much for you. How’s templar life?”

“Good.” Carver’s tone is unamicable at the very least. Fenris is actually amused by it, until a thought crosses his mind that this is how his own behaviour must look like to the outsiders. “Has everyone else known that my sister is getting married?”

Fenris’ heart stops.

“Ha! Don’t believe everything you hear, Junior. Gossip is gossip, but honestly, you see Hawke with a Chantry brother?” Varric’s tone is light, but his eyes flicker to Fenris’ face, suddenly frozen in an blank expression. “No offence, but your family’s got enough of the Maker at the dinner table already.”

Carver shrugs. “There’s not one thing I’m not expecting of my sister now.”

“She’s not getting married, Junior.”

“They’re wearing matching outfits now. She’s not exactly being subtle.”

It doesn’t change anything, Fenris tell himself. It doesn’t. Political dalliance turns into a political marriage, probably to secure the position of the prince in exile, and build a good background for the Kirkwall march to retake Starkhaven. With the two free cities wielding an overwhelming portion of the Free Marches’ power, and Viscount Dumar all but eating out of Hawke’s hand right now, there’s nothing  more convenient than snatching the fruit when it’s ripe and cementing the union between the cities.

She does not have a title, nor is she a politician, but she plays the Game like one.

And what would be more in the spirit of the Game than having an Orlesian-styled Winter Ball to uproot the world and plant the seeds for something new?...

But he’s not a politician, he’s not a prince, he’s a runaway slave, and he’s got nothing to offer to that smiling woman in a red dress with her house’s emblem on the back.

He excuses himself under a bullshit pretence that does not fool Varric for a second, and wanders blindly through the colourful crowd. Amongst colourful, embroidered jackets, feathers, ribbons, snow-white ruffles, crinoline, and vividly-coloured boots, he’s one of the few wearing black. He snatches a glass of champagne from the passing servant’s tray and drinks it all at once, a move so brash and ill-mannered that Leandra would surely shudder. But _Leandra_ is the one to have orchestrated this – and suddenly he feels so angry at the woman, playing with her own daughter’s life just for the sake of shallow vanity and reputation.

He grabs another glass.

He’s not aware that he’s manoeuvring his way towards her until he sees her three paces away, almost completely covered in bouquets. She notices him, and her eyes light up, and despite himself he’s _glad._

“Fenris! Do excuse me, serrah de Launcet, I ought to greet an old friend.” This is her diplomatic side, he thinks, turned up for the ball, but the tone is identical to with which she’d say, _Greetings, Arishok._ She wriggles her way through the crowd, bending under the weight of all the flowers she’s been given. “Maker’s knickers, look at this. Orana! Why don’t I have someone taking all that weed of me as soon as I’m handed it?”

“You do, messere. You send him off for more champagne.”

“Did I now? And where’s my champagne?”

Fenris smirks. With one hand, he easily gathers the armful of flowers – they’re heavy, but it’s nothing compared to what he’s carrying on a daily basis – and with the other, he places his own untouched glass of champagne into Hawke’s hand.

“You called?”

She stares at him for a moment. Then she bursts out laughing.

“Watch the champagne, Hawke.”

“So smooth. You’d have thought you were born for this.”

“I was.” He regrets it as soon as he says it, and her face stills for a moment, but then she covers it up immediately.

“Well, can you help me carry this to that pile in the dressing room? I’d offer to take some but my hands are now very conveniently full. I’m just going to walk by and pretend we’re having a quite important conversation.”

“Are we?”

“We totally are. Sebastian can manage them for five minutes.”

His name on her lips makes him scowl, and he turns his face away. But Hawke is not fooled.

“I’m not marrying Sebastian, Fenris.”

“I never said you were.”

“Come on. I thought we were over this by now. You’re not trusting the gossip over me, are you? I made my hopes and desires _profusely_ clear.” She nudges him, and he can’t supress a smile – a tiny one, but it’s enough to make her grin in turn. “Unless I need to make it even more obvious.”

“That’s always welcome,” he allows, and the door of the dressing room clicks behind them.

She kisses him as soon as the flowers are in the water.

“How scandalous,” he breathes into her mouth, gripping the nape of her neck and sliding his hand down her bared back. “Cheating on the prince behind the closed doors.” She shudders, squirming under him, and he can taste the lipstick – alien, unfamiliar sensation. “You’re enjoying it way too much, _princess._ ”

“Fuck,” she bites, breathless, “You don’t know- how _good_ you look in this, Fenris. This is _fantastic._ Aveline mentioned it but-”

“You’re not half bad either.” He kisses her again, and this time his hand wanders under the silky red fabric. He feels the stitches of the embroidery that strings together the Hawke crest, and it feels – daring. Bold. _Blasphemous._

“Not half bad- oh, you are hopeless.” There’s heat in her voice he recognises all too well, but he’s too caught up in this – the smell of the flowers is everywhere, on her skin, on his, the fabrics are silky, inviting, and oh, he wants- _he wants-_

But not here. Not now.

Maybe after the ball.

“Five minutes, you said. Your mother will be suspicious.”

“ _Fenris.”_ His name is almost a moan in her lips, and he supresses a deep shudder. “You are just about the stubbornness-” He kisses her almost violently, drowning the next words in his mouth.

“Five minutes isn’t over yet.”

“No? So make the most of it.”

It lasts longer. The kisses are hot, urgent, of the kind that spark the heat in his belly, and the small, half-throttled sounds she makes under him are almost too much, and, and – _not enough._ She sneaks her hands under his coat and over the buttoning of his black shirt to touch the bare skin of his chest, and _his lyrium comes to life under her fingers_. He can’t supress a deep shudder.

She suddenly lets go. “Did I-”

“No. It’s okay.”

“It didn’t hurt you. You promise.”

“I promise.”

Hawke sighs and relaxes back into his arms, pressing her cheek to his chest. “Good.”

He breathes out too, resting his chin against her hair, painfully aware of the hardness in his nether regions. Not this time, though.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe.

A thought pops into his head. ”Why the matching outfits?”

“With Sebastian? That we’re apparently getting married? Ha.” Her snort is still a little breathless, muffled in his chest. “In a way, it’s kind of a similar thing… War alliance, Fenris. You know, you never asked why Sebastian, ahem, _courts_ me in the first place.”

“You’re a fine woman, Hawke.”

“And he’s a _monk._ We’re planning out a march to retake Starkhaven with Kirkwall forces as soon as the Qunari have been dealt with. Mainly a political move, the army is mostly for the leverage. So we needed a lot of publicity.”

Suddenly the sheer scale of Varric’s gossip makes sense. “The dwarf knows?”

“Yes. But I asked not to say anything to anyone until the bombshell’s dropped. People will much rather come to an engagement party than to a war council.”

Of course. He wouldn’t admit it if she asked, but he’s – _relieved._ But Hawke must feel the way he relaxes against her anyway, because he can tell that she’s smiling. “Convinced now? Next Summerday, we’re going to have a nice little army march instead of a wedding. You’re very welcome to come too.”

“Look at you, Hawke, geared to become the shadow behind the throne.”

She looks up at him and grins. “Didn’t you get the memo? I’m that already. I’m going to become the shadow behind _two_ thrones. We should probably go now, though.”

He nods and lets go of her. They quickly reorganise their clothing into its original impeccable state; but her lipstick is smudged, and he can’t help but reach out and gently wipe the red stain from over her upper lip. She smiles under his touch, eyes softened into something warm.

“I shall be the shadow behind the shadow, then,” he says, and her face lights up. 

Then they walk out into the swirling colourful chaos, and she’s immediately caught in a million of small talks, but she casts him a brilliant smile as she walks away and somehow he does not mind.

 

-/-

 

Every bouquet is adorned with the Hawke crest. So he picks up one and binds it to his hip – a mark of loyalty, of commitment, of belonging. Sebastian is not the only one in the room that has an allegiance. 

He asks her for a dance. And – and she agrees. It’s a soft waltz and he holds her as close as decency demands, no closer than Sebastian or the viscount, but it’s still wonderful to just hold her like that in front of everybody, and despite himself he wishes that they _were_ together.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll ask her.

The colours shine and shimmer around him in the swirling rhythm of the waltz, and Hawke is at the apex of it, her red dress like a burning flame in his arms – and everything shrinks to one shining speck of light. And then – then she squeezes his hands slightly before she lets go, walks up to the vestibule, takes Sebastian’s arm, and announces that the bride of Kirkwall will take the groom of Starkhaven, but in another way: the march will happen. The viscount gives a short speech and congratulates them on forging the most promising political alliance of the decade.

And she’s at the heart of everything, a shining axis of the world, of _his_ world, the unbound, spinning firestorm of change, the light, the sun, the very centre of the universe.  

Leandra looks up at her daughter flanked by the prince and the viscount, as much a top of the world as she could have ever imagined, and she’s positively _glowing_. Fenris inclines her head slightly in a polite greeting, and the dignified lady all but waves at him in response. He can’t stop the grin.     

 

-/-

 

There are so many flowers in the house after the ball. It’s been a great success, and the letters and congratulations won’t stop coming, so he doesn’t see Hawke for the next couple of days – apparently everybody wants a piece of the new trade agreements that are sure to flow when prince Sebastian ascends to power, and Hawke herself is the surest relay and surest guarantee. Leandra herself is busy too, and she adorns every corner of the house with the thank-you bouquets.

No-one notices the white lilies until it’s too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't yet, then please, please, please check the warning tags before you continue reading.


	8. Guardian

That terrible evening Hawke barges into his mansion, half-unconscious from the nerves, and the mockery dies on his lips. “Mother’s missing” is all she says, and he walks out with her without a word.

They follow the trail and with every step her can feel her aura _boil._

“I knew there was someone, someone before the ball… and then… _Fenris,_ this is going to be okay. Mother’s safe. She’s okay. She must be.”

“We’ll find her, Hawke.”

“Of course we will. We _will._ ”

They talk to Gamlen, then to the urchin – she all but _screams_ at the kid, but he doesn’t blame her the least – pass the Hanged Man, and with Hawke not taking her eyes off the terrifying trail, it’s left to him to come inside and drag Varric and Isabela out of their game. They chase after her to the lowest parts of the district, a disturbing trail of blood under their feet, and Varric swears quietly as he sees Hawke’s face.

“Shit, Chuckles. We’ll find her.”

“I know we will.” Her hands are shaking. “Keep moving.”

“Sweetheart…”

“ _Don’t,_ Isabela. Let’s keep moving.”

The trail ends at the foundry. It’s dark, it’s murky, it’s the worst of nightmares.

And there’s the _stench_.

He recognises it, and a terrible, sickening suspicion grows in him. _Blood magic._ He stops Hawke from barging in, grabbing her shoulders forcefully. She tries to shake him off.

“Hawke, whatever we find inside, you must promise me something.”

“I’m kind of in a hurry right now, Fenris. _Later._ ” The words are cold, hollow – her eyes are steely, and she wrenches his arm away. But he doesn’t let go.

“Promise me you won’t resort to blood magic. Not even in revenge.”

“ _Fenris._ ” Her voice is like an arrow of ice. “Let go of me _right now._ ”

“Promise me.”

“This is the worst possible time to have that conversation! My mother is in there with a madman-”

“Let go, elf. We’ve got bigger things to worry about right now.” Varric pokes him from the back, and he could yell with frustration. _This is important._

“Just promise me that. No blood magic.”

“No blood magic,” she hisses furiously. “I promise.” When he lets go, she all but wrenches herself away from him and bursts through the door with fire and lightning.

They follow.

 

-/-

 

And he is forced to watch the unthinkable happen.

 

-/-

 

She won’t let go of the body.

Varric needs to pry open her blood-splattered hands. He does it gently, and Hawke almost doesn’t protest – she’s frozen, numb like a piece of stone, and nothing gets through. He could just as well be talking to one of the mourning copper statues that adorn Kirkwall – the city of death, city of mourning, and he feels sick in the stomach when he thinks about it.

_Leandra Hawke is dead._

_Leandra Hawke is dead by the hands of a mad blood mage._

He remembers that spinning ballroom, the flowers wreathing around the Hawke crest, and Leandra’s big, beaming smile…

He carries the corpse in his own arms. Step after step, a silent funeral procession, down to Darktown and through the secret passage. Isabela disappears behind the door with a lantern shining over it, and she returns with Anders.

He takes one look at the body and blanches.

“There must be a way you can help, Andy,” Isabela says almost pleadingly. “Heal her. You’re good at that. It’s not her body, but… she can still be alive, right? Right?”

The mage slowly shakes his head, and whatever was left of light on Hawke’s face disappears with that. “This is foul. This is… What happened?”

After a long pause, Varric is the one to answer him. Anders rushes to Hawke and throws her arms around her, but she doesn’t react. She’s mute and immobile in his embrace, arms hanging low without even a pretence of reciprocation, and it’s a _terrifying_ view.

“Let her go, mage.” There’s no heat in his own voice. And Anders – _the world has gone mad_ \- Anders listens to him. As he steps back, Hawke doesn’t move.

The body in his arms stinks. He can’t bear to look at its rough stitches. It’s no Leandra.

“Let’s go to your house, Chuckles.” Varric takes her elbow, and she follows obediently, without a word. The cellar corridors are an unending maze, with one trail trotted clean in the thick dust and scattered cobwebs. After Hawke makes no move to light the way, Anders casts a gently pulsating sphere of soft yellow-white over her head. Isabela, closing the silent procession, grabs a torch.

The body in his arms is light, unreal. Its white veil and wedding dress are a sick joke, and they are covered in red. He feels the thick dried bloodstains on his skin. _This_ is _Leandra Hawke now. This is all that remains of Leandra Hawke…_

Hawke leads the way, her shoulders stiff.

“Varric,” says Isabela in a low voice so Hawke would not hear. “The rest of the body needs to be there somewhere. We should find it before she does.”

The dwarf gives one sharp nod. “Go see Aveline. Tell her to take men and search the foundry. Bring the body to the estate and…” He hesitates. “Blondie?” he asks in a low voice.

“What is it?”

Varric beckons him closer. “Can you… put the head together with the body? If we can retrieve it?”

A shadow crosses Anders’ face. “Yes. It’s not what I normally do, but yes.”

“We’ll do that. She shouldn’t… no-one should last see their mother like that. This is _sick_. Go, Isabela.”

The pirate casts one more worried look at Hawke and turns back, the torch disappearing in the tunnels.

As they reach the house, Varric picks the lock with unnerving ease and they walk in. The estate is unchanged, as bright and pristine as ever, and there are flowers everywhere – and Orana is watering them, soft melody on her tongue.

She turns to greet them - and drops the watering can.

“Messere-”

“Empty the living room, Orana, if you could,” says Varric immediately, before the girl has any chance to start panicking. “Leave the table on, and bring in a bath. But first go and fetch as many packs of ice as you can. Could you do that for us? Great. Come on, Fenris. Anders, if you-“

But Anders is already ushering Hawke upstairs, and she does not protest. They pass Orana, and the girl looks like she’s going to cry or reach out for her young mistress, but after several tense seconds she nods and walks to the servants’ rooms. They walk into the living room, and the dwarf unceremonially pulls the tablecloth off the wide table.

“We sat at Satinalia here,” says Fenris in a hollow voice. Varric shakes his head and he notices that the dwarf’s hands are trembling slightly.

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll mourn later. There are things someone has to take care of right now, and it bloody shouldn’t be Hawke, so I guess it’s just you and me, elf.”

He nods and lays Leandra’s body – _Leandra’s body –_ on the bare wood. There’s a quiet knock on the door and Orana comes in with ice.

“I will prepare a bath, messere. A cold one?”

“Yes. And some towels. And a new tablecloth, if you could.”

She inclines her head politely, but her terrified, widened eyes are not lost on Fenris.

“Orana. You’re safe. There’s nothing that can harm you. The man who did this to your mistress is dead.”

“Thank you, serrah.” She leaves without looking at him, and for a second it feels like he’s drowning in black despair.

It’s shattered. Everything is shattered. Blood magic came and ruined another life, and he was helpless to stop it. It’s always been blood magic.

It could have been Hawke.

_It could have been Hawke._

Varric tears his glance off the body to look at him, and his eyes are grim.

 “Someone needs to tell Carver.”   

 

-/-

 

Aveline shows up first, the two men behind her carrying a shroud. She’s shaken, and there’s blank incomprehension on her face, but she goes straight for Hawke’s chambers. After a short while, Anders emerged from there, and asks to be left alone with the two mutilated bodies, one headless and the other a macabre patchwork; violet light emanates from the shut door of the living room, and then it fades.

When they come back in, Leandra’s body is laying on the table, still bloodied, dirty, and with a ghastly scar around her neck, but otherwise – _intact._ There’s a pile of ashes on the table beside her, and Anders quietly asks for them to be taken to the Chantry.

He wants to mock him for _asking for the Chantry_ in the first dire moment, but the closed eyes of a dead woman on the table make him swallow his words.

With Anders’ help, they clean and dress the body. The mage takes away the melting packs of ice and simply lowers the temperature of the body itself; Leandra’s face turns grey under his touch, but at least the foul stench is gone. Anders, evidently more experienced with the treatment of the dead, takes over from Varric, and the dwarf slumps heavily into the chair, face hidden in palms.

The shock hits him in waves. _Leandra. Leandra Hawke._ He carried her letters.

She invited him to her posh party. _You sound positively noble, serrah Fenris._ And now – and now – only because a madman lost his wife –

She was so happy at the ball. She _waved_ at him. 

It’s senseless. It’s utter madness. It’s unreal.

Orana brings in clean clothing, and they dress the body into formal, embroidered gown. And then, without being asked, she brings in the flowers: the red and golden wreaths of the house Hawke that have adorned her house only a couple of days ago, the memory of triumph, the nobility restored and lit anew with glory. Soon her improvised catafalque is covered in bouquets, wreathing around her as they did with the family crest, as if she’d died on a bed of flowers.

The house is silent, dark, expecting.

Then – after an eternity – Aveline comes down, and behind her, white as a sheet, Hawke.

He expects her to break down. He expects her to start weeping, yelling, wailing. He expects her to grieve.

But her eyes widen impossibly as she sees her mother’s grey face on the catafalque, surrounded by the flowers of the ball, her pupils shrink into two singular points – and she opens her mouth in a silent scream.

There’s no sound.

He can’t take it. “Hawke. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” she says, and he’s shocked how calm her voice sounds, and it’s – it’s _wrong,_ it’s grating, it’s off, it’s wrong. “For the body. And the flowers.”

“This is the least we could do.”

“She needs one more thing. Orana!” She raises her voice, not tearing her eyes off the catafalque. “The candles, please.”

“The candles, messere?”

“Yes. All of them. All candles that we have. She won’t lie in the dark.”

“Right away, messere.”

The candles are brought in without barely any wait, and Orana quickly procures the sturdy candle-holders from the cupboards. And then, when the flood of unlit candles surrounds the body lying on the flowers, Hawke raises her arm –

\- and a furious net of fire descents on the room, setting aflame every single one of them.

His markings flare up at the sheer display of chaotic power running wild, and in a flash he remembers the promise that he wrung out of her before tearing into the foundry. _No blood magic. Not even for revenge…_

She doesn’t need blood magic. He’s never seen the full extent of her power, but if I turned into _this_ when her control was frayed, then – then everything they’ve ever said of her was just a glimpse.

“Leave me.”

Her voice bears no discussion. But, to his endless loathing, the mage tries anyway.

“You shouldn’t be on your own now, Hawke.”

“ _Leave,_ Anders. All of you. I want to be alone with my mother.”

“We’re leaving,” says Aveline and crosses glances with Anders. The mage presses his lips into a thin line, but gives the tiniest of nods. But before they walk out of the room, it’s Varric who speaks out.

“We’ll be there for you if you need us, Chuckles. All of us. Just let us know.”

She doesn’t move nor react, and the door clicks behind them, leaving her with a greying cadaver in flowers and candles.

 

***

 

With the spread of the news, the Hawke estate becomes the centre of public attention twice in the same week. Isabela weakly jokes about the attention hogging, and Aveline shuts her down immediately, but there’s no usual fire in their squabbling, and they’re worried.

Sebastian comes in within the matter of hours, and he – like the rest of them – is asked to leave shortly after offering condolences. Merrill also appears, but she does not dare come in – she leaves a short message at the table and goes away before anyone stops her. _Serves her right, the blood mage,_ Fenris wants to snarl, but there’s too much silence in the air.

He has to admit – at least the witch has enough sensibility not to pester Hawke with her presence. Most of the nobles of Kirkwall do not care for similar subtleties. Bodahn and Sandal take the role of porters, turning away the prying eyes, and accepting the letters and bouquets of condolences; the same hands that gave Hawke the flowers in anticipation for her betrothal now wield the grieving garlands.

Bodahn accepts every bouquet, but immediately throws into the fire anything containing white lilies.

With Hawke closed off and her house inaccessible, her friends gather in the closest possible place: Fenris’ mansion. Suddenly he’s got _guests;_ Isabela and Varric all but squat at his house for days, carefully positioned next to the upper floor windows as to monitor the situation at the Hawke estate. Sebastian comes in and out, pacing restlessly; it’s a side of the man that Fenris has never seen, and it’s strange to watch the collected, confident prince lose his balance like that. Even Anders and Merrill, two of Hawke’s companions that he has never managed to stomach, finally enter his adopted household, and he grits his teeth and allows it for _her_ sake.

Carver finds out last.

When, clattering his armour in a graceless run, he barges into the Hightown square and starts _yelling,_ the mansion is already crawling with people. He rushes to the door – Bodahn lets him in without a blink – and disappears.

He doesn’t come out, and Fenris can only guess what’s happening between the Hawke siblings at the side of their murdered mother.

Days pass, and Hawke does not entertain visitors.

Sebastian is the one to organise a funeral. Everyone comes, and there is little difference between the list of attendance between the ceremony and the ball: the viscount and his son, the Grand Cleric, and the crème de la crème of the Kirkwall elites. There’s music, too, and garlands of golden and red flowers adorning the tall pillars of the Chantry; the prince has thought about everything. It feels like a heartbreaking reprise of Leandra’s great triumph, and again she leads the way – this time, from a coffin. 

It’s at the funeral when he sees her next. She’s standing between Carver and Gamlen, a little black-clad figure between two tall men, staring at the pyre with empty eyes.

She’s the one to eulogise, and hearing her voice amongst the echoes of the Chantry is simply _painful_.

“My mother was an unbroken woman. Her life was that of hard work and sacrifice, all in the name of love. I’m sure many of you remember the young Leandra Amell, a girl with a heart too big for Kirkwall, and it would only grow as she grew. Born into riches and nobility, she never treated her position as a tool to rule and judge, but as a way to _elevate_ others – and so she didn’t frown on a young penniless mage that stole her heart at an Orlesian feast. That mage was my father.”

She makes a pause here, allowing the whispers to subside, and then continues, her voice strong and unwavering: “To be with the one she loved, she had to decline all she had, and leave behind all she knew. And so she did – a sacrifice I can only appreciate after we’ve returned to Kirkwall, and realised how much exactly the city meant for her. That one decision of sacrifice in the name of love brought a lifetime of other sacrifices, and she bore it gracefully, never bowing against any difficulties. She had always been a true Amell.”

“Her only desire was for her children to claim our heritage. And so, throughout her tireless work, we are returned. You have been to the Winter Ball that was my mother’s grand work, and you have seen how far we’ve come. She had come full circle: from riches to refugees, and from refugees to reclaiming the noble heritage of our ancestors. And what she gave up for the love for her husband, she fought and won for the love for her children.”

“She was taken away from us before her time, and in the most violent of ways. But I assure you that her vile murder has been avenged by my own hand.” More whispers. This time, she talks over them. “I believe that wherever she is now, she is reunited with her husband, her daughter, and her parents, whom she loved despite their differences. So when it falls for us to grieve and long for her presence, we might find solace in knowing that she’s not alone.”

She takes a deep breath, and Fenris can see how her hand is squeezing Carver’s arm. “I want to assure you that I have no intention of forfeiting my mother’s legacy. My brother and I stand tall as the heirs of the house Amell, and we continue working tirelessly for the good of Kirkwall and its people – in the Chantry and beyond. But anytime you see the Hawke crest in Hightown, I want you to think about the love of Leandra Amell that gave life to our house, and of her sacrifice that brought it high.”

She inclines her head and puts down the parchment.

The applause starts quietly, like a muttering pitter-patter of a drizzle against a tin roof. But then it grows, it fills the Chantry with a cloud of echoes, and it multiplies, growing more and more until the drizzle is a _tempest,_ a hurricane of clapping hands, filling the temple to the very top of its pillars – and Hawke takes a torch and sets the pyre aflame.

The fire rages on, and the applause sounds on, and it’s so much like a dream that Fenris feels like he’s submerged in lukewarm water, the clapping resounding in the high-ceilinged church, drowning out the crackling of the fire… and it burns, burns, burns, too high to see Leandra anymore, she’s disappearing from the face of the earth forever and there will be no returning, not even as an undead. Leandra Hawke is irreversibly and irrevocably _gone._

Grand Cleric is speaking, but he can’t hear her over the applause, over the crackling… His eyes are fixed on Hawke.

“You need to wake her up,” whispers Isabela to him. She looks strange in a modest black clothing, but Aveline _insisted._ “This is not her, Fenris. This is some shitty empty doll talking in our Hawke’s voice, but she’s gone. She’s not there. You _need_ to do something.”

“She won’t let me in.”

“Don’t ask her.” Isabela says it as if it were the simplest thing on Thedas, and he nods.

“Very well.”

His gaze flickers to Hawke’s face, empty and impassive as she stares at the pyre, and he aches to touch her.


	9. Drakonis

A week passes before he dares.

He tries the socially acceptable way first, and knocks on her door on a spring evening. Bodahn opens without barely a pause, his face wearing his normal robust, friendly expression, but there are lines on his face that have not been there before. Sandal peeks from behind his father’s shoulder.

“Good evening, serrah Fenris. How can we help you?”

“I want to see Hawke.”

The dwarf’s expression darkens, the lines on his cheeks all the more visible. “Serrah has asked not to take any guests who are not family.”

His words are almost apologetic, but they hit Fenris hard. _So much for the illusion._ Whatever happened at Satinalia, whatever patchwork family they seemed to have created, ultimately he was still in no position to reach out to her. He’s not family.

“Has Carver been in this week?”

The dwarf shakes his head, a deep frown crossing his features. Sandal mouths _enchantment_ with his brows furrowed in a childish sulk. “The young Hawke has… not taken this well, serrah. He took to his Templar duties with tenfold the zeal.”

 _Of course._ If one considered the recent events in the context of Carver’s character, it was the only obvious conclusion. A maleficar took his mother; now he was on a holy mission to rid the world of maleficars once and for all. It was almost too easy to see where this was going: he himself had made that mistake towards her many, many, _many_ times.

_What does the magic touch that it doesn’t spoil-_

“He took it out on her, didn’t he.”

The dwarf nods tiredly. “A mage and a templar in one family is a recipe for trouble. And in hating magic, serrah Carver has managed to give an impression that he hates his sister too.”

Fenris’ fists clench at their own volition. This is all too familiar. “There’s only two of them left now. They need to stick together.”

“Of course! My son and I learnt that lesson long ago.” Bodahn’s eyes soften as he casts a quick look back at Sandal’s face. “I’m sorry about that, serrah Fenris. I’m sure serrah Hawke will be up and about in no time.”

He just nods wordlessly and turns back. The false hope in the dwarf’s voice wouldn’t fool anyone.

The socially acceptable method of reaching her has failed. The only thing that remains now is Isabela’s way.

 

-/-

 

He leaves his sword at the mansion and goes unarmed – the long daggers in his boots and sleeves don’t really count, and he feels slightly naked leaving the house without his signature heavy weapon – but tonight is all about stealth. His shoulders feel light without the weight of the greatsword, his knees springy, and he climbs the balcony of the estate adjacent to Hawke’s without as much as a quickened breath. Then, slowly and carefully, he moves in the dark; the windowsills are slippery with the evening dew, but he’s balanced on less secure surfaces in his days as a fugitive. Hightown is dead silent, nothing more than one lonely lantern over Hawke’s house lighting the estate – and there’s one stained-glass window spilling orange glow to the outside. Hawke’s bedroom. She’s awake.

His elevated heartbeat has nothing to do with the adrenaline of walking along the narrow, slippery windowsills.

The window under his hands gives way, and he silently slips into a dark room. He’s never been in this part of the mansion, but judging on how everything is decorated with the Amell crests and – how _untouched_ and dusty everything looks – this must be Leandra’s room. His throat is dry as he slowly walks across the floor, his feet no doubt leaving marks on the soft fluffy Orlesian carpet, and opens the door, silently begging it not to creak.

 _Leandra’s room._ There are books in there, sculptures, a couple of substantial wardrobes, a lovely dark wooden desktop with quality stationary – but what catches Fenris’ attention are the paintings. Featured along the walls there are lovely realistic depictions of the estate, an unknown dark-haired young man, and a family of four portrayed in stiff, old-fashioned poses in front of a fireplace: a middle-aged couple, a teenage girl with long black hair and piercing blue eyes, and a slightly younger boy. Then the paintings change, as if this artist was more concerned with _picturing_ things as opposed to catching their true spirit: nevertheless, the pictures of Carver and Aedale and Gamlen are good enough, and then – Fenris shudders when he looks straight into the eye of the serenely smiling Leandra Hawke.

He hears footsteps behind the half-opened door and freezes in place.

Then – there’s _light._

He’s momentarily blinded. Hawke wrings the door open and the sheer furious power emanating from her aura knocks him to the ground, and he’s breathless, lost, _terrified –_

_What did you do, slave?_

“…Fenris?” She sounds so taken off guard that it breaks through the ice in his mind. Her aura disappears under her skin – but not before he can feel a glimpse of something raw and destructive and hardly controlled.

He stands up, keenly aware of the wet marks his feet have left on Leandra’s white carpet. “Hawke.”

She blinks, so ridiculously confused that, in another situation in another life, he’d smirk. “Am I hallucinating yet?”

“No. I climbed the window.”

Another blink. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“The door was not an option.”

“Was it Isabela’s idea?”

“Yes.”

That cracks the mask of dumb surprise on her face, and she smiles weakly. “With friends like this…” Then her gaze meets the soft smile of the Leandra in the portrait, and the burgeoning expression on her face is snuffed out immediately.

He’s ready for it this time. “Hawke, we need to talk.”

“No, we don’t. Thanks for checking up on me, Fenris. Now if you could leave…”

“I couldn’t, Hawke.” _I won’t._ He meets her gaze, and she holds it for a long while, unflinching. Then, when he starts losing hope and begins picturing the way he can salvage the most dignity when forced back out of the mansion, she lets out a heavy sigh and shakes her head.

“You’re lucky I was the one to find you here. Sandal’s enchantments can be pretty ugly when he’s stressed.” She turns back and walks away along the corridor – but she’s leaving the door open, and that is as much of an unspoken invitation as he needs. He follows, wet marks of his feet trailing behind him.

He thinks there’s a flash of a bearded head under the vestibule, and it suddenly strikes him as quite odd that a mansion’s window would be left unlocked for the night. _Bodahn, you cunning fox._

They walk into her room, the fire’s quiet crackling filling the silence between them.

“Just so you know, I am only doing this because you’d probably come back through another window. I don’t necessarily want you to break your neck falling off my house’s walls.” Hawke’s voice is brisk, borderline unfriendly, and he just shakes his head.

“I’m touched.”

“You want tea or something? I’ll call Orana.” She turns away from him, straightening up the non-existent creases along the bed. A corner of his mouth turns up.

“Since when do you offer people tea?”

“Just have your fucking cup of tea and go, Fenris,” she snaps angrily, and his mouth falls back into an impassive line.

She’s tense, taut like a vibrating string, and it’s only a matter of time before she breaks.

“Hawke.”

“ _What._ ”

He’s not sure what he’s doing, but there’s an instinct in him that seems to know – and, led by this strange, daring, bold feeling, he reaches out and closes his fingers on her arm. Hawke grows still under him.

“Just sit with me, Hawke.”

“Okay,” she breathes, and there’s a barely contained shudder in this word. She lets him pull her gently on the bed, and the soft mattresses sag under their combined weight. She is warm against him, almost feverish, and he wonders whether the deeply red shadows on her skin are just fire, or perhaps something else.

She’s breathing heavily, with effort, restraining something thick bound in her chest so tightly that it sounds almost – _choking._ He squeezes her arm lightly.

“Hawke…”

“Go,” she stammers in a faltering voice, and a shiver goes through her. “Please. Go now. Or- or I won’t have the strength to let you go again - ”

He lets go of her arm – but only to encircle her in a gesture that has become so familiar, so wonderfully intuitive that it almost comes as a shock. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A bubbling sound escapes Hawke’s lips, her eyes squeezed shut in almost physical pain. “Please- _please-_ ”

“I’m _staying._ ”

She stammers something incomprehensible – and then she collapses in his arms, and the fire in the mantel _roars_ and fills the entire room and suddenly – he’s burning, she’s burning, everything’s burning, red and desperate and furious and lost and – and – and - 

\- he’s _alive,_ he’s not dead.

There’s a sound over the roaring flames, and it’s uncontrollable sobbing.

He presses her close against his chest, her arms scrambling to clutch his black shirt, and she’s _shaking,_ she’s shivering so hard that he finds it hard to stay still, a small part of himself watching impassively as the flames filling the room retreat to the fireplace, leaving black scorch marks on the wood and carpet and walls – but nothing on them both. He’s terrified out of his mind – _he’s holding a firestorm in his arms –_ an uncontrollable power without limits – but, somehow, in that split second that would have burnt him to death without even a moment to realise that, she _protected_ him.

It lasts an eternity – he’s trapped at the eye of the storm, the heart of the tempest, the one calm place in the roaring chaos, the only safe haven to protect him from _herself_ – and he’s terrified, and he’s never been that scared since Danarius unleashed the _lightning_ at him – but the sobs that shake her small body won’t stop, an eternity of grief and regret and failed responsibility and _everything_ to hang her hopes and dreams on falling to a maleficar’s madness.

And then it stops, and she grows still in his arms again, breathing still shallow, but more controlled.

“I’m sorry, Fenris,” she manages, and he can hardly recognise her voice.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” His voice does not tremble - he’s proud of that more than anything. For her, there _is_ nothing to be sorry for – just the terrifying display of power, just the uncontrollable flames that scorched the room, just the sheer force of her aura that almost blinded and deafened him and took him back to the time when that kind of magic was –

_A curse._

_Is that how Carver sees her?_

She stares at him with half-lidded eyes, and there’s so much exhaustion and so much grief in that glance that he lowers his forehead to hers. She shudders under him.

“You need to go,” she whispers, but it’s nothing more than that – just a whisper in the dark room. He doesn’t move, and neither does she. “I’m dangerous like that. There’s nothing to control me.”

Those words stir something dark in him, a sick grip of fear, and despite himself he remembers ketojans with sewn off mouths. “You control yourself, Hawke.”

“You think that was control? Think again.” Her mockery is empty, hollow.

He pulls her closer. “Get out of here. Hunt and kill some blood mages. See your friends. Get distracted. Do something, Hawke, don’t exile yourself from the world. Your mother-”

“Don’t.” Her voice is like a blow, and he cuts off mid word. “You made me open her room, Fenris. Don’t push me any further.”

“It won’t stay closed forever, Hawke.”

She pulls away from him, anger flashing in her eyes, and he wonders whether he’s imagining the sudden heat that emanates from her. “Says the man who never cleaned up the corpses from his main hall. You’re a paragon of _moving on,_ aren’t you?”

A hot blush creeps up his cheeks. “Are you calling me a hypocrite, Hawke?”

“Yes! Yes, I am calling you a hypocrite, Fenris. Three years. Three years and it never occurred to you to _get out, see your friends, do something-_ ” Her face is twisting in sharp mockery, and the sting gets right through the heart. “It’s my _mother,_  Fenris, not your dead slaver masters! Let me have my mourning!”

He withdraws. Everything seems so cold now, even the fire. “You’re grieving, Hawke. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

But she’s too far gone, she’s almost screaming now, everything that was empty and passive before now turns into _rage._ And he knows it’s not about him – he _knows_ – but at the same time her keen blue eyes are piercing into his and the world is shrinking, freezing, it’s dying -

“And what about me, huh? What about this _whatever it is_ we’ve had?! You walk out, and you keep walking out, and you keep _leaving me,_ because you won’t stay, because you don’t have the _guts_ to stay, so you just… play along when it suits you, but you never commit! So don’t talk about _moving on_ to me, Fenris! Unless when you say that you’re staying – you _actually mean it!_ ”

Somewhere along those lines, his heart has stopped beating.

And then there’s her mouth on his, her insistent tongue thrusting in between his lips, and she’s so sickly hot and there are _hands everywhere and –_ and – and –

_No. You won’t make me. No one will ever make me._

He pushes her away.

She falls on her back, lips parted, eyes open wide in what is an expression of pure _terror._

He breathes out heavily. And there’s so much silence – so much sickening, grave, heavy silence between them.

After an eternity, he stands up. His legs move slowly and with great effort, as if he was waddling through an ocean of thick, bitter syrup.

He will leave.

He _will_ leave.

The world has ended for him, right there, right now. And there is nothing left, just running away.

“Just say this is over,” whispers Hawke, and the silence is suddenly pounding in his ears. _Yes. Or no. No consequences._ “That this is all unimportant anymore. That we’re through, and done, and there’s no chance of us ever becoming anything than just a fling. Just say it. And then you can go away all you like.”

_All you like…_

And suddenly Fenris understands. And suddenly –

He’s pushed her away. _He’s pushed her away._ And she didn’t do anything, she didn’t _punish_ him for stopping her, she wasn’t _trying_ to make him do anything – just make a decision – do what _he_ wanted –

A slave’s choice. A slave’s boon.

_Freedom._

Even in pushing her away. Especially then.

So _what_ does _he want?_

He looks down at her, a small, terrifying creature of too much raw power, too much responsibility on her shoulders, too much grief, too much regret.

“I want to be with you, Hawke.”

She blinks twice, really slowly. There’s an expression of infinite tiredness on her face.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m not ready,” he says, and the words feel so natural that he discovers that this – _this_ – is what he’s been trying to say all along.

She nods. “Evidently.”

“I want to-” And suddenly it’s so clear, so obvious, so _natural_ again, like breathing. “I want to kill Danarius.”

“I’ll do everything I can so you can get the bastard.” The reply is also natural, and he wonders whether this is what conversations of truly _free_ people are like – stating what you want, what you feel, and what you’re going to do.

It’s liberating.

“But I want to stay close to you, Hawke.”

She closes her eyes. “What did I say to you, Fenris?”

 _Go now. Or- or I won’t have the strength to let you go again._ As if his entire mind was lighting up with so many new ideas, as if someone set up a fire inside his head, everything is so clear now. She is terrified that he would promise her what _she wants,_ and then leave her life.

 _She’_ s been scared to ask what _she_ wants…

“I won’t abandon you, Hawke. Whether we are… _together_ or not, I won’t abandon you.”

“Careful. This is not a promise you can give lightly.” Her eyes flash, and for a second he remember the roaring fire. But then he remembers that _she protected him._

“I am not giving it lightly.” He takes a step towards her, and then another one. She’s still splayed on the top of the bed, her black hair in disarray, her cheeks reddened with sobbing and anger and anxiety. “I promise you, Hawke. I won’t abandon you.”

“You promise me,” she repeats blankly. He sits back down and closes his hand over hers.

“I promise you.”

Her fingers move weakly against his, and he knows his pledge of allegiance is accepted.

They don’t speak anymore that night, but the fire is not roaring anymore, instead moving softly in a calming rhythm of a heartbeat. When he knows she’s asleep, he stands up quietly – but then his gaze stops on a red ribbon laying on Hawke’s desk, the same one she was wearing in her hair at the night of the ball.

And although he leaves her before she wakes up, he fastens the ribbon securely around his wrist, and when he visits her in the morning the next day – Bodahn lets him in – her gaze flickers to his hand, and then to the Hawke crest on his hip, and her features soften into something thoughtful and sad.

But she has breakfast with him and Bodahn and Sandal and Orana, and the fire in the mantel remains calm and controlled, and when she cracks a weak joke at his own expense he doesn’t even mind.

Thoughtful and sad is better than just sad.  


	10. Cloudreach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who can spot a Star Wars reference?

The days that come after are similar to the first weeks after he left her – they have the same hollowness, the same emptiness, the same silence. But this time, he’s only a passive receiver of the sadness in the air – he’s feeling the echoes of her grief as its own, but they are only echoes.

He finds himself missing Leandra, and the surprise has a bitter twang to it. He’s never considered how much of a constant presence the woman was, even when he wasn’t speaking to her; she was the lady of the house and the head of the family, as much as it was Hawke to actually deal with any problems that arose. She was a part of the surface layer of his life, an embellishment that gave it a bit of character, and without it, Hightown seems… different.

He no longer has any excuse to visit her several times a week – Carver writes no more letters. Varric tells him that the young templar and his sister had a shouting match in the Gallows when she finally went in to visit him, and the brief truce they had for their mother’s funeral is history. He’s angry to hear that, more irritated than he’s got any right to be – Carver is too much _like him_ not to take his issue personally. He’s tempted to go and try to fix things himself – but after Aveline comes back, bristling with anger and _actually ordering beer_ at the Hanged Man, he realises that meddling would only make the younger Hawke go even more ballistic.

“So walk me through it again, Aveline.” Varric looks like he’s torn between facepalming and laughing out loud. “So you said to Junior…”

“To man up,” barks the guard-captain, taking an angry swig from her glass and wincing. “This is foul. Is there any alcohol in there, or just something chewed up?”

“I’m not going to answer that question. So you said, ‘man up,’ and _then_ you told him to go apologise to his sister?”

“Someone needs to talk some sense into the lad.”

“And you see no error in this?”

Aveline casts him a very effective blank stare. “Your point, Varric?”

“Ha! My point is, maybe you shouldn’t first call him a sissy and then order him around like a sissy. But hey, what do I know.”

The guard-captain sighs deeply and leans on the table, putting the beer very firmly aside. “Perhaps dealing with… emotions is not my forte.”

“You? Emotions? I have _got_ to hear that again.” Isabela appears behind her, seemingly out of nowhere. “You guys heard that? The cold guardsbitch’s got _emotions._ ”

“Go drown yourself in the docks, skank.”

“Maybe later.” Isabela drops at the chair next to her, helping herself to Aveline’s scorned beer. “So what were you guys talking about?”

“Carver,” he says before Aveline gives a scorching repartee. “He won’t talk to Hawke.”

“Just another _man_ dropping his baggage on the poor girl.” Isabela finishes the drink in one long swig and then slumps on the table. “I’ve just seen her. She’s meeting the viscount tonight, on some secret business or something.”

“Who wants to bet it has something to do with the Qunari?” Varric rolls his eyes. “Qunari this, Qunari that, you’d think no-one talks about anything else in this bloody city anymore. ”

“Nah. Apparently it’s _personal_ tonight.” Isabela procures a crumpled letter with a broken seal from her substantial bosom. “Take a look.”

“That’s _stealing_.”

“Shut up, prissyface.”

“Ladies, please.” Varric takes the viscount’s letter from Isabela and scans it quickly. “Although Aveline’s right. It is stealing. Better make sure no-one finds out about it.” And then he just casually flicks the paper over the candle, burning it in seconds. Isabela grimaces at him.

“You’d better have memorised every damn word of it.”

“Please, Rivaini. When have I ever been wrong about words?”

“So what did it say?” Fenris casts a passing look at the burning paper, feeling a twang of frustration at his still-imperfect reading skills. The only thing he’s gotten was _Serrah Hawke -_

“Blah blah blah help me serrah Hawke, you are my only hope. Wanna bet she’s going to be here in half a bell, yapping something about a party mission for this guy?”

Aveline’s face darkens. “This is serious. The Qunari have been more active than ever. And that fool Seamus doesn’t help. There are rumours that he’s taken a lover amongst them-“

“Ooooh. But that’s a lot of height difference.”

“Shut up, skank. The boy could easily undo everything his father’s got planned.”

“Does his father have a plan at all? Other than ‘Let Hawke Take Care of It’?” Varric snorts. “Dumar’s been useless. The Qunari are not moving away, and all he’s doing is antagonising them.”

“He’s been _compliant_ with everything, Varric.” Aveline’s voice is tired.

“In their eyes, it’s a sign of a weak leader,” says Fenris. “Compliance will get him nowhere.”

“Okay, so Dumar’s weak, his son’s a moron, and Hawke is unstable at the very best. Whatever he wants from her, it won’t end well.” Varric waves his hand, and the barman comes over with a jug of beer. Aveline casts a passing look at the inside of the jug and shudders. “Enough of the Qunari business, though. Cards, anyone?”

The guard-captain stands up, still wincing. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ll check on Hawke in the Keep. Whose turn is it tomorrow?”

“Blondie’s. Though he’s not been happiest himself either.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow at the cryptic mention of the _abomination_. “Turns?”

“On Hawke duty. We make sure she’s not alone for too long.” The dwarf meets his gaze and shrugs. “Look, elf, this is something you might understand. She _shouldn’t_ be alone.”

He initially scoffs at the thought, but it does make sense. “When’s my turn?”

“No offence, but it’s probably not that great idea you think it is.” Varric’s tone is frank and his face sincere. “You guys work yourselves out on your own. I’m not getting involved in this.”

Aveline nods. “Varric’s right, Fenris. We won’t meddle.”

“Yes we will.”

“Shut up, skank.”

Fenris looks at Varric, then at Aveline, then back at Varric. “You think… I shouldn’t see her.” The bitter taste in his mouth has nothing to do with beer. Why would they say that, when he was the one to get her out of the mansion in the first place –

“Elf, sometimes I wonder. Are you really that dumb, or just taking a piss? Go see her anytime. I won’t send you, though. Your choice.”

And here it is, here it is again, the understanding, and a very clear intention in Varric’s eyes, and he thinks he understands – and a flicker of gratefulness sparks in his mind.

It’s the same thing that Hawke has offered him. _Free will. Free choice._

_Freedom._

“Just so everyone knows, this is missing out on the greatest matchmaking opportunity _ever._ ”

“Oh, listen to Aveline, Rivaini.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You did. So many times I’m going to make it your gimmick if I ever write this shit down.”

“Oh! Oh, I know. I think he means-”

“Shut up, skank.”

“That’s it! Here you go, Rivaini. The call of authority.”

“You shut up, guardsbitch. Hey! Hey Corff! The next round’s on the City Guard.”

“How about we invest that money in investigating pet theft and public indecency.”

“Honeybun, no money can buy you _my_ kind of indecency.”

“Really? I’m told that the current price at the Blooming Rose is three coppers.”

“You must be so flattered. _I’m_ told that they only give that price to the prettiest boys in town.”

“Ladies, _please_. Hold up. I’m not getting all of that down.”

Fenris rolls his eyes as bickering continues, and he thinks about the demands of the Qun. The Qunari respect order and power… and with the weak viscount and hostile Chantry, there’s only one creature in Kirkwall that wields power and creates her own order.

The unbound, spinning firestorm of change…

There’s only one hope for the city now.

 

***

 

It’s late in the night when he finally comes back, and to his endless surprise he finds Sebastian on his doorstep. And the prince is different than usual too: instead of his usual robes he’s wearing a mated, dented armour, of the sort that’s been proved in battle. There’s a bow on his back, and an expression of grim determination on his face.

Fenris frowns at that. Over the period of mourning he’s seen enough of the prince, but there’s been nothing between them that warrants any hostility. Unless, of course, the monk _has_ romantic feelings for Hawke, in which case - 

“Serrah Fenris. I’m sorry to bother you here, but Aedale spoke of your competence in the Qunari tradition. I need your expertise. As soon as possible.”

He halts at that. Not hostility then. Worry. “What would you like to know?”

“Seamus Dumar has converted to the Qun. We _need_ to get him back.”

 _Huh._ That – that he did not expect. 

The answer is easy, obvious – and the fragile little world of Kirkwall politics crumbles under its implications. Fenris closes his eyes briefly. “You cannot.”

“There has to be a way.”

“No. This is southerner thinking. Qunari laws don’t have loopholes. If the boy has converted out of his own free will, then he is a Qunari now.”

“What are you talking about? He’s clearly not!” The prince’s bristling, his patience wearing thin. “He’s human, and he’s a viscount’s son. We cannot lose that much in one go-”

 _Oh._ Fenris understands now. With the shaking of the viscount’s throne, the grand march on Starkhaven was shaking too…

 _He’s a viscount’s son._ “Has he taken a rank yet?”

Sebastian stares at him blankly. “I don’t know. Is that relevant?”

“The Qun is a law of order and responsibility within the society as a broader construct. The roles they fulfil in the society _are_ their identities. The Arishok might refuse to take a viddathari that fails to fulfil that role in his own life.”

“Vidda-”

“The convert.” He swallows a scoff.

“So we might persuade the Arishok that because Seamus has a role to fulfil within our society, he cannot convert,” translates Sebastian, and a trace of relief crosses his face.

“Yes. It’s the only thing I can think of now that would make a Qunari at least reconsider a conversion.”

“Thank you! Come with us to the compound tomorrow, Fenris. I have a feeling we still might have a chance of turning this around.” The prince gives a short bow, and he returns it without thinking.

“You shouldn’t hope for too much, Sebastian. The order and responsibilities human societies have no tangible value in the eyes of the Qun.”

“I won’t be negotiating that. _She_ will.”

They cross glances, strange mutual understanding passing in between them, and suddenly Fenris thinks that if she’s made a prince and a slave bow to each other as equals, persuading the Arishok out of claiming a convert is not even close to what she’s capable of doing.

 

***

 

It’s – almost right. It almost doesn’t make him nervous anymore, the way she somehow talks, fights, or negotiates her way out of every crisis. She’s got her serious face on, she’s strong, clear, going straight for what she wants – Saemus Dumar to return, and order to be restored. She’s a leader even the Arishok can respect – and set against a culture where life and death is decided amongst the Tamassran matriarchs, Hawke presents herself terrifyingly well.

The Arishok listens, and despite his unmoving attitude Fenris senses a great anxiety in him – frustration born of long time staying restless and powerless, driven to the brink and relentlessly pushed further. He does not care for the political power that his newest viddathari may bring, and despite Sebastian’s silent scoff, Fenris believes him. There’s nothing Kirkwall has that the Qunari want – and they are kept here against their own will, in a world that they do not value and do not know and do not understand. The horned soldiers around them are twitchy under their stone-cold façades, agitated and expecting only a call to arms, and there’s no doubt that if they do hear it, they will happily burn their prison-city to the ground.

But the Arishok does not seem to want it. Or rather – he does want it, but there’s another duty binding him, something Fenris can only guess, that has stayed his hand so far. And Hawke’s offering a way out, a loophole out of a certain bloodshed – thinking like that is alien to a Qunari, but only a fool would ignore the chances it offers. The Arishok is definitely not a fool.

It’s almost done. He can’t be relieved just yet, but the Qunari _listen_ to her, and that’s the most important thing. There’s still a way out of this.

But Seamus is not there.     

And so, stopping along at the tavern to get Varric – Isabela gets twitchy and excuses herself under a bullshit pretence, and all but _runs away_ when they mention the Arishok – they climb their way to Hightown and higher still, to the Chantry.

 

***

 

 When Seamus’ lifeless body falls on the floor, it’s the second time in two months he has seen her face something unfixable.

 

***

 

The city is living in borrowed time now. He knows it just by looking at the tense, straight shoulders of the Qunari soldiers. The attack will happen – the only question that remains now is _when._

Hawke and Sebastian go to the Arishok again, and they all but drag him along as well. He doesn’t want to, but he finally allows it for _her_ sake – he’s lived along the Qunari long enough to know when they have made up their minds, but she hasn’t. Somehow she’s still clinging to the idea that the adamant decision that _of course_ has been made – _just look at them, Hawke! –_ can somehow be altered by words alone.

They accomplish nothing, and he regrets walking inside the compound, because it is shapeshifting into a Qunari camp in war-torn Seheron – and now he is anxious.

He tried to visit Aveline and warn her, but she’s not in, and the guards all look worn down and exhausted. Someone explains to him that the captain has been on duty for over forty hours straight, following some new developments in a gruesome murder of one of the guardsmen –

He tells Hawke instead, and she nods at him silently. There’s still so much quietness between them, so much quietness in _her_ that only stands aflame when she’s in the middle of a disaster. He’s almost grateful that the world is crumbling down on their heads, because it takes Hawke’s mind off her mourning, and _his_ mind off _Hawke._

Isabela comes to his mansion the night after that, hammered and smelling of sperm; she blubbers at him incoherently, and he lets her speak. The pirate has been on edge for a while, but this is different – this is blind, feral terror drowned in cheap liquor. At some point, she starts singing so loudly that his sensitive ears almost explode; but then she stops and stares at him with child-like incomprehension.

“Whhy- why do I ssstil hav’em… sssstill…”

“What, Isabela.”

“Thhhh… th… thgh…” She burps, then giggles, then her face turns serious again. “T-thoughts. Ssssumtin… with’em…”

“Second thoughts?”

“Yasss. Them.”

“About that awful drunken sex you had before?” Fenris’ gaze flickers to Isabela’s ruined trousers – or whatever she wears instead. The entire situation smells like regret.

“Na-ah. Hawke… shshe’sss… she’s been…”

“She’s been what?” he asks, suddenly alert. But Isabela shakes her head drunkenly, and her eyes widen in instant regret – and then she opens her mouth and delivers a smelly fountain of vomit on the floor.

His face wrinkles in disgust. “Hawke’s been what?”

“G-good to me,” she manages before breaking into a coughing fit.

He rolls his eyes. There is nothing he could wring out of her in this state, except for more vomit. So just brings in a wet towel and an empty bucket, and, sighing, nudges the pirate’s head into the latter.

At least _this_ mess he knows how to fix.

 

***

 

Two days later, in the clear and bright spring afternoon, there’s knocking on his door – and he just takes his greatsword and goes to find her already halfway through the hall.

“Aveline’s gone mad,” says Hawke, and this is one of the few things he has not expected.

“Mad?”

“She wants to barge into the Qunari compound and demand extradition of two new converts. This is going to blow up in our faces!”

He thinks quickly. ”For what kind of crime?”

“Murder of a guard.” Hawke’s face darkens. “Just murder would be bad enough, but this? She’ll never let this go.”

Fenris shakes his head slowly. “I’m not sure if she should either, Hawke. This would set up a dangerous precedent.”

“I thought you _didn’t_ want this entire mess to blow up in our faces!”

“It’s inevitable, Hawke. Better out of this excuse that we can see than another we can’t.”

“ _Inevitable,_ ” she spits angrily. “I’ve had it with all that _inevitable_ and _destiny_ and _order_ and all the other shitty excuses people use to stay idle. Well, guess what? Fuck the inevitable. No-one is starting a war in my city.”

“They won’t ask your permission.”

“Wanna bet? I’m going to _make them_ ask me.”

She walks out, the door open as implicit invitation, and – as always – he follows.

They make their way down to Lowtown, and for the first time he realises how hopelessly difficult this city would be to fight in. Sure they’ve seen long enough in street skirmishes and breaking off the gang rule, but against a full-on assault from within – there’s little to no chance the city would ever stand a chance if faced against the Qunari. The streets are narrow, a labyrinth of tunnels lets small teams of soldiers travel virtually everywhere in a short amount of time, and there’s no defences once the enemy has gotten in. Kirkwall relies on the sea as its main defence; without it, it would be just a piece of rock with way too many tunnels carved inside.

And since the Qunari are in…

Hawke drops a couple of silvers into an expectant hand of a street urchin, and soon Sebastian, Varric, Anders, and Merrill – even the blood mage is in, although Hawke’s glance hardens somehow as she looks at her – gather in a small circle in front of the Hanged Man. Isabela is nowhere to be found, and a terrible suspicion starts to grow in Fenris’ mind.

But it’s Varric that voices it. “Chuckles, you’ve seen Rivaini around? She said she was going to see you tonight.”

Hawke shakes her head. “She showed up and started apologising for something. I thought she was drunk. But that was yesterday.”

“Hawke, something’s wrong,” says Anders. “You know these ultra-strong potions you asked for? They’ve disappeared.”

Hawke facepalms. “Obviously. Our favourite thief. What is she cooking up at the moment at this?!”

“She’s terrified,” says Fenris, and all eyes turn to him. “And apparently having second thoughts about something. I don’t know what.”

“Has she found that _whatever_ she was looking for? Is that what this is all about? In that case, I’m very happy we’ve moved on before. I love you guys, but _seriously._ Running personal errands at a time like this-”

“About that,” interrupts her Sebastian. “We should probably move on now, Aedale. We can talk about your friend later.”

Hawke lets out an irritated huff and obeys.

Aveline finds them in the docks. “Are you ready for this? It could get ugly.”

“Come on! Has everybody but me already doomed this city?!” Hawke shakes her fist in an angry, frustrated gesture. “The Arishok doesn’t _want_ this fight, alright? I spoke to him yesterday. _He doesn’t want it._ Tell them, Fenris!”

“He doesn’t,” he says, and her face smoothens up for a second before he adds: “But he will fight anyway. They’ve already made their minds about it, Hawke. Nothing you can do can stop it.”

“Argh! I’ve had _enough_ of this. Let’s go and take those murderers from the Arishok. _No-one_ is fighting a war tonight. And all of you, _shut up!_ ”

Aveline clears her throat disapprovingly.

“Except you, guard-captain. Lead the way.”

There’s a small contingent of guards waiting outside, and Aveline issues a short order.   Hawke stops for a second to exchange a couple of quiet words with Varric – and then, with Aveline and himself in tow, she marches into the compound along with the team. Fenris instinctively looks for the easiest way out – this is no longer a provisional settlement, this is a war camp. The vitaar on the warriors’ bodies are different too, and it is all but ready for a confrontation.

Aveline comes forward, every inch an officer. “Greetings, Arishok. We come regarding the matter of the elven fugitives that took refuge here.”

“Irrelevant. I would speak to Hawke about the relic stolen from my grasp.” The giant is unmoved. Hawke blinks, the realisation of something terrible blossoming on their face.

“Relic?”

“You will cease the games, Hawke. We know that the Tome of Koslun was in Kirkwall yesterday, and that your associate has taken it. We demand you return it.”

Hawke’s face turns blank, and Fenris is so infinitely grateful that his own expression has been turned numb years ago by the way of Danarius’ cruelty. _The Tome of Koslun._ Lost long ago, the most sacred, most important, most – most _Qunari_ of all things Qunari – was Isabela’s relic all along.

_This is why they could not leave._

The answer has been in front of their eyes the entire time.

“Let me speak to my companion.”

“She’s gone, Hawke,” says Fenris quietly. “If this is true… she’s a long way from here now.”

“ _How does it-_ ” She stops her hiss immediately. “My apologies, Arishok. I was unaware of my companion’s actions. I will retrieve her as soon as we have concluded the matter of the elven criminals.”

“Your offer is welcome.” Arishok turns away from them. “The Tome of Koslun will be retrieved either way. You would do wisely to aid us in the search.”

“An issue for another time,” says Aveline, her voice forcibly calm. “We’re here for the fugitives. They have done injustice against the order of our society.”

“The elves are viddathari now. They have chosen to submit to the Qun. They _will_ be protected.” And just like that – the conversation is finished. Fenris turns back discreetly, searching the nearest cover.

But despite everything he’s taught them, Hawke and Aveline are still in denial. “These elves are only here to escape justice.”

“ _Kirkwall_ justice.”

“I know that you do not respect the order of our society as sacred in the Qun, but does the Qun excuse hiding from the consequences under a pretence of religion?” Hawke’s voice is still unyielding, but she has lost, and both he and the Arishok know it. The decision has been made when Seamus’ dead body hit the Chantry floor. This is – this is just playing for time.

At the corner of his vision, he sees the Qunari archers stand to attention on the makeshift battlements of the docks. Their bows are still slack, but not for long.

“You have not hidden the abuses of your zealots, or the corruption of this city. You will understand why I must do this. Let us look at your _dangerous_ criminals.” The giant makes a curt gesture, and two of the indistinguishable elven converts approach him. Aveline’s jaw sets. “Speak, viddathari. Who did you murder, and why?”

And despite Fenris loathes the fact that the Qun is treated like a cover from the law – the faces of those downtrodden, impoverished, forgotten elves are the faces of slaves. _Rape. Injustice. The law made to protect the powerful and abuse the lowly._ This – this is Tevinter all over again, and he can’t stand to look at the viddathari because their vengeful, angry faces are too much like his own.

Hawke looks at Aveline, her mouth taut. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“There were rumours, allegations. I don’t know if that’s true, Hawke! There’s two hundred men under my immediate supervision. If that _is_ true, I swear to you that we will unearth the truth. But this-” She stutters, fire in her eyes. “This is a mockery of law. They could search asylum for good reason, but would you be so understanding if it were _Quentin_ that did the same thing?”

Hawke’s expression darkens. There’s immediate regret on Aveline’s face, but the words are out there, and they ring in everyone’s ears like the funeral bells of the Chantry.

But the Arishok speaks before she opens her mouth. “The actions of the elves are mere symptoms. Your society is the disease. They have chosen. The viddathari will submit to the Qun and find a path your way has denied them.”

“You can’t just decide that! You must hand them over.”

The Arishok ignores her. “Tell me, Hawke – what would _you_ do in my place?”

She stands between them – and without armour, without bulking muscle, without giant swords and shields and without anything at all that would give her at least a semblance of power, it’s her face that draws attention.

She’s silent for a long while – and Fenris _knows_ that she’s weighing in the provocation and the appeasement. There is no third way. The provocation _will_ send the city into chaos. But the appeasement will make her set a precedent for a murderer to walk free –

And after that funeral service, after seeing Leandra’s pyre, Fenris knows the answer before she opens her mouth. The city has been doomed for a while now – but this is the final blow.

_This is the third inevitable._

“You can’t make your own law as you please, Arishok. I would hand them over.”

“Thank you,” breathes Aveline behind her, but Hawke stays unmoved. The Arishok stares at her impassively, and then slowly walks away.

“Alas, Hawke. We honour basalit-an, and yet the breach between the southern barbarians and the way of the Qun is too wide to cross. You would have made a Qunari worthy of respect.”

Her eyes flash. “Pardon me, Arishok, but I really wouldn’t.”

“Yet you are blinded. As I have been blinded, but no more.” Fenris moves towards her, in a strategic position that will get her behind the cover. There’s a flat piece of wood next to him, good enough for a makeshift shield if things turn desperate… “I cannot leave without the relic, and I cannot stay and remain blind to this dysfunction. There is only one solution.”

And Aveline finally understands – and panic crosses her features. “Arishok, there’s no need for-”

“Vinek kathas.”

Fenris lunges at Hawke in the moment when the archers loosen their strings.


	11. Bloomingtide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special prize to anyone who will point out the sneaky Doctor Strange reference.

They fall heavily behind the barrels, and in seconds he can hear the dry sound of arrowheads hitting wood. Aveline is at their side in a moment, crouching with an arrow sticking out of her shield – and suddenly there’s so much screaming in the air, screaming and gargling on blood pouring out of pierced aortas.

“My contingent!”

“They’re _dead_ , Aveline! Duck!” Fenris pushes her head below the cover and an arrow swishes over it. There are about a dozen Qunari at the gate behind them, in a well-formed battle formation, but thankfully without the arrows; the city guards are almost all dispersed, killed by surprise in the initial assault, and Fenris knows with terrifying, cold certainty that if he hadn’t pushed them when he did, they would be laying on the ground as well.

“We need to get through the gate, Hawke!” yells Aveline over the noise. The last remaining guards engage the Qunari at the entrance, and _they’re dead already_ – with the short swords and heavy shields, they are no match for a half a tonne of steel, muscle, and pent-up frustration of long years in the compound.

Magic flickers on his skin, and he recoils without thinking. Hawke shoots him a steely glance.

“Arishok! We are leaving now,” she yells loud and clear from behind the cover. “Thank you for having us! The tea was _awful!_ Now move your men from the doors or _I_ will remove them.”

“You will do no such thing, human,” growls one of the stens at the gate, and charges –

“ _Now,_ Varric!”

There’s a small object flying over the gate from outside. It explodes.

And suddenly there’s smoke everywhere. The Qunari are blinded, and he can hear them chop their axes blindly through the air – _it’s just like Seheron, it’s just like the Fog Warriors._ He feels a tug at his hands and Hawke pulls him into the fastest sprint he’s run in a long time – it seems unreal, covered in white, thick smoke, and when he rams into a blood-tattooed body he just slashes wide and shallow. The Qunlat curses he hears tell him that he has not missed.

The gate is closed shut, but not for long. His lyrium stands aflame in his veins as a white-hot fireball hits the battered wood right through the chest of a warrior. They push through the hole and run – and as she turns back, Hawke casts frost over the burnt wood. Thick tendrils of ice creep over the gate, sealing the breach and locking the Qunari in.

“That should at least slow them down. Thank you, Varric. I owe you one.”

“Damn right you do! What in the Maker’s flaming buttcheeks was _that_?”   

 “The Qunari just declared war on Kirkwall.”

“ _What?!_ ” The dwarf’s eyes narrow to slits. “How?”

“You remember that relic Isabela was looking for? Turns out it’s a super sacred Qunari thing. And she’s stolen it now. _Again._ ”

“You have _got_ to be shitting me, Hawke.”

“Wish I were. Let’s move out of here now.” She casts a worried look at the ice sealing the gate. “Aveline, how many Qunari are we dealing with?”

“Enough for an invasion. We need to crush it here or we’re risking a full-on battle on the streets. Sebastian-”

“I will go to the Chantry now,” says the prince before Aveline can finish. “I will mobilise the guards on the way. We _are_ protecting this city. And I need to protect Elthina.”

Hawke gives a hard nod. “Thank you, Sebastian.”

“I will see you in half bell, Aedale.”

 A slight grimace goes through her face as he turns back and leaves. The gate shakes, and a split starts to grow around the ice.

“Seriously, let’s move on!”

They run up towards Lowtown, and it’s terrifying how little has changed from their last stroll along the dirty, claustrophobic streets of the district – but now every corner hides impending danger.

“Why do you let him call you by your first name, Hawke?”

“ _Fenris,_ ” she snaps, “You really think this is the best moment?!”

“You make a face every time he says it.”

“Yes, Hawke, why _do_ you let him?” Unexpectedly, Anders backs him up from behind, and he’s feeling absurdly irritated because of that. Hawke makes an exasperated sound.

“Seriously? _This_ is the moment you two decide to team up?”

“It’s a legitimate question.”

“Sure! Let’s debate nicknames in the middle of a Qunari invasion. Seems like good prioritising to me.” They arrive to the top of the stairs to Lowtown, and – and there’s a rain of arrows awaiting them there.

Aveline swears loudly, raising her shield. “ _How?!_ We’ve left them trapped down there!”

“One word, Aveline.” Varric dodges a shot and reloads Bianca. “Tunnels.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake-” Aveline draws her sword. “Face me, you beasts! I stand for order in this city!”

“And soon you will stand no longer,” snarls a Qunari and charges at her. But – a large rock missile hits him first.

“Thank you, Merrill.”

“Don’t mention it. There’s too much stone in this city not to use it.”

“It’s not just a nickname, Hawke, it’s your own proper name. And you never use it. Why?” Fenris lights aflame his lyrium and for a long moment the world is crystalline, electric with cold blue contours, with pulsating tendrils of blood visible in the hot bodies of his enemies, the hearts shining pools of energy inside their chests – he reaches out, and snuffles it out.

Hawke casts a fireball. “ _Seriously?!_ ”

“Ha! I didn’t even know her name for the first year or something.” Varric kicks one Qunari in the groin, then turns back and fires a shot into another one attempting to stab him in the back. “Not today, fella. What was I?”

“I just thought you liked birds. You know, a proper nickname! I was thinking I could call myself Nightingale. Or maybe Magpie? It’s probably not Elvhen enough, though. Then again, I’m supposed to be a flat-ear now…”

“Ha! I totally should’ve called you Magpie, Chuckles. Missed a bullseye there.”

“Not to rain on everybody’s parade, but we’re kind of _in the middle of something_ now,” yells Hawke, her forcefield deflecting two arrows. She raises her arms and the bows of the two remaining archers stand aflame.

“Seriously though, Hawke, why do you use your surname for everything?” Anders spins his staff around, the disarmed archers immobilised now. “Following that logic, we should have a Tethras, Vallen, and…”

“Sabrae,” supplies Merrill kindly, sending out another rock that lands on the archers’ heads, crushing them to the ground. “Well, technically it’s just a name of the clan, but that’s what a surname is anyway, right? But it would be weird if I just started calling myself Sabrae. I mean, how do I know I’m the right one?”

“Exactly! How does your brother has a name but not you?”

“I don’t know, I kind of see the reasoning here. Can you _imagine_ Junior being the default Hawke?”

“It’s complicated,” barks Hawke and stomps her feet. The last remaining Qunari, with Varric’s arrow plucked through his eyeball, falls down and does not rise again. “Alright? Complicated. Now if you could pay a little less attention to my name preferences and a little more towards the _impending doom_ and _the_ _end of the world as we know it,_ that would be all nice and dandy.”

“Oh, come on, Hawke.” Anders twirls his staff around. “We didn’t even break a sweat! If this is going to be anything like that skirmish here, this all will be done and over with before sunset.”

And – with perfect dramatic timing – this is the moment when they hear a deafening roar of gaatlok being detonated at the gate, and the Qunari army marches in from behind the explosion.

“Shit,” spits Varric. “You just had to, Blondie. You just had to.”

 

***

 

In the end, they are forced to flee towards the upper districts.

His worst expectations come true as the Qunari lead a well-coordinated, lightning-quick attack at all the strategic points simultaneously. Barricades are erected, and set on fire; and whilst they make their way through the burning city, he sees people fleeing from under them, screaming, begging, and hiding with terror on their faces. Hawke sees them too, and he doesn’t dare look on her face; more than the Qunari terror, he is terrified that he’s going to find an impassive, empty expression there. Because if Hawke has given up now –

“We need to fall back, Hawke! If the Viscount’s Keep stands we can gather our forces there, and plan a counterattack!”

“Way ahead of you, Aveline. Everybody!” Hawke’s voice pierces through the noise like a lightning. “We’re going to burn our way to the Keep. And if someone _still_ wants to stop us, then go ahead, but be warned.” A flame flickers over her raised hand. “I wasn’t being figurative.”

Anders chuckles behind her. “I thought we were over the theatrics now, Hawke.”

“Ha! Never. But believe it or not, this actually has a practical purpose.” They hide behind the covers at the top of the stairs between Hightown and Lowtown. The Qunari run towards the sound of her voice, their axes raised and ready –

“Merrill, if you could?”

The elf looks her in the eye – for the first time since her mother died to blood magic, it feels like – and nods. Then she slams down her staff. The earth rumbles quietly – and a wave of raw stone raises at the top of the stairs, riding down like a mighty tidal wave, sweeping all the charging Qunari in one powerful push.

The stairs are now a steep pile of rubble.

Varric clears his throat. “Wow, Daisy. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“Less chatter, more moving on!” yells Aveline, and they run.

There are Qunari in Hightown too, but with wider, more spacious streets, and substantially less shady tunnels to connect it with the docks, the battle is easier now. And Hawke makes true on her promise: she does burn her way to the Keep, her flames burning hot and high. He finally dares a quick look on her face and – it’s focused, it’s angry, there’s emotion in it. Not the good sort of emotion, but _emotion_ nevertheless. Her aura is quivering, but it’s different from that terrifying night when she gave up all pretences of control; now it’s something guided and measured, as if the pure power of her inner self had been finally given a clear purpose.

The edges of her aura are as sharp as his own blade as he crosses them, and he shudders when a piercing sensation that is not quite pain but not quite pleasure either shoots through his core.

“What are you going to do when we get to the Keep, Hawke? You know you can’t beat Qunari with the city guards only.”

“I don’t know. I’m working on it.” She doesn’t look at him. “What I do know, though, is that _I’m not having it._ I’m not losing this city too.”

“You can’t let it blind you, though. It might be worth considering going to Starkhaven-”

“You’re kidding, right? After I’ve all but declared I’d march on the city and retake the throne for the other prince I like better? No, Fenris. This stays in Kirkwall.”

“There’s still Ostwick, Tantervale. Outside help. I can’t see another way to win this.”

“That’s because you’re not looking hard enough!” Her voice is feverish. “You think you know it all, Fenris, don’t you? That _this_ was inevitable all along? Well, it wasn’t! It’s not some sort of grand order of the world to make things so messy, it’s just a sequence of bad decisions from stupid or selfish people, and some bad will and anger and prejudice to fuel the rest. Any of those little things could have changed it! I refuse to believe there wasn’t a way out of this, and I definitely _refuse_ to believe there isn’t any now.”

“You can’t perform miracles, Hawke.”

“Ha!” She finally looks at him, her eyes meeting his, and heat pools down into his stomach. There’s anger and desperation on her face, but there’s also – clear, burning like white fire in her piercing blue eyes – unyielding determination. “Just you watch me.”

And suddenly a pang of fear goes through him.

“What are you planning?”

“Haven’t planned anything yet.”

“You’re lying, Hawke.”

“Maybe.”         

He grabs her hand now, and her gaze flickers to the red ribbon on his wrist. “You _will_ tell me.”

“I stopped using my name after my father died,” she says, and he’s suddenly rendered speechless. She’s not trying to remove his hand as they climb the streets, and she’s not trying to hide it – and he can only imagine the look on the _abomination’s_ face, but right now he could not care less. “Aedale was the helpless child. Hawke was the head of the family. I prefer to be called something that evokes power rather than failure.”

“It wasn’t a failure.” He squeezes her hand hard, and wonders how much that first death defined her – and how much of an effect Leandra’s death has _really_ had.

Her eyes darken. “He could have lived. And my mother could have lived. And Seamus could have lived, and this city could have not been plunged into chaos. It happened, but I will never, ever, _ever_ accept the world where this is the only choice I have.”

“Hawke-”

“I _am_ a sum of my failures, as well as all my victories. But if I am to choose, then I will choose the _victories_ to define me, and that’s why no-one calls me Aedale anymore. I’m _Hawke_.” She squeezes his hand back and stops. “And that’s why I’m going to fucking save this city, Fenris, even if that’s the last thing I do.”

And it’s there – it’s written all over her face, that desperation, that determination, that burning heat of her skin under his hand – and he’s suddenly sick with fear.

“You _can’t_ -”

“I want you to remember something,” she interrupts him again as they walk on the square in front of the Keep. One look at it and he knows that the city has fallen. “There’s nothing, _nothing_ I won’t do to protect the people I love. You got me?”

“Hawke, whatever you are planning, _stop and think for a second-“_

But she pulls her hand out of his suddenly strong grasp, and she rushes forward, and his fingers feverishly close on – _nothing._  

“Arishok!” she yells out, pushing in the gateways of the Keep. “I’ve come to duel.”

 

***

This is not happening.

This is not happening, not happening, not happening.

He’s been scared before. He’s lived most of his life in fear. He made that fear into a weapon. But it was always a fear for _himself_ – of capture and pain and abandonment. Now –

It’s like his insides are on fire, and he can feel that relentless heat slowly scorch his racing heart, inch after inch. She’s standing before the Arishok. _She’s offering to duel the Arishok for the city._

No. No. No, no, no, no, no, _no,_ she can’t win, and she knows it – she’s not even _expecting_ to win, but he knows with terrible certainty that this _is_ the only way Kirkwall has yet to have any chance at all. The nobility is rounded up around the Arishok. The viscount is dead. The templars are decimated. The mages have fled, turned, or got slaughtered.

There’s just one force remaining in the city, and – _there’s nothing, nothing I won’t do to protect the people I love._

_Hawke._

And suddenly – the door opens behind them, and a rag-tag team of templars with dented armour barges in, led by a tallest woman he has seen in a long time.

“I am Knight-Commander Meredith! You will leave this place or you will be killed in the name of the Maker and Andraste his Holy Bride.”

“Silence, bas. I will talk with Hawke only.” Arishok is unmoved as he looks down on the silenced Keep from the height of the Viscount’s throne. Several Qunari restrain them with ease, and another terrified shiver goes through the crowd; there’s viscount Dumar’s head somewhere at their feet, but Hawke is not looking down. “And even so, even you, Hawke… for all your might, you do not grasp the reason of why we must do it. You do not see.”

“Oh, I can see just fine, Arishok! I’m seeing bloodshed. I’m seeing countless deaths and all that potential of life wasted on an ideology. I’m seeing _a man_ who’s ready to start a war on a principle.”

“And who would the Qunari be without principle? _You,_ I suspect.” And Fenris is the only one that can recognise the full extent of the compliment and insult in those succinct words. Hawke narrows her eyes ever so slightly.

“Woe is me. A _Qunari_ calls me unprincipled.”

“Mock, basalit-an. It will change nothing.”

“You have a choice, Arishok. You know this community will not be your new colony of viddathari. But if I defeat you, your men will leave unbound to the duty that ends with you.”

“My duty is greater than any lives of men,” barks the Arishok, but his eyes flash. “The Qun _demands_ that the Tome of Koslun be found.”

“And I _demand_ that not on my ground. You have granted me dignity equal to your own, Arishok. Honour my will to fight for what is mine.”

“You have the knowledge of your companion that we require for the search. Killing you will be unwise.”

“There are plenty of people that can help you track Isabela. She gets around. Only one Hawke to fight for Kirkwall, though.”

“ _What_?!” An incomprehensible yell comes from the back of the hall, where the Qunari restrain the remaining templars, and a barrage of steel, brute force, and pure _fury_ rolls across the hall. “ _Two,_ sister. There are _two!_ ”

“Wait!” shrieks Hawke before Arishok nods at the guards at his side. “I would talk to the templar if you’ll allow it, Arishok. Carver, _what the fuck?!”_

There’s a deep black bruise under the young Hawke’s eye, and his armour is covered in blood. “I know what you’re doing, Aedale. I won’t let you.”

Hawke’s voice falls to a furious whisper. “Carver, you are literally a hand gesture away from being disembowelled by a giant horned beast. You know what _I’m_ doing?! What the fuck is wrong with _you?!_ ”

“You’re a _mage._ You won’t survive five seconds in close combat!”

“And what do you care?!” she spits bitterly, and something in Carver’s face breaks in frustration.

“I’m your _brother._ I’m supposed to _protect_ you. That’s why I’m a warrior and you’re a- father said-”

Fenris turns his face away.

This is between them.

“Carver.” Her voice is thick with emotion. “You take care of the dog if I lose.”

“I’m not losing _another sister_ to an ogre!”

“I’m sorry.”

“ _AEDALE_ -”

“Arishok,” she asks in a hollow voice. “This is the man of my own blood that is also familiar with the pirate. Should I fall, he will assist you in finding the tome so you can leave Kirkwall in peace. Lead him back now.”

Carver’s furious screams resound under the high ceilings of the Keep.

“This is appreciated, Hawke.” The Arishok casts her a measuring glance. “You are determined to fight me, basalit-an. Tell me, creature without the principles of the Qun – what drives you? The order you seek will not be restored. The people will not change to obey you.”

“I don’t want them to. I want them to be able to obey no-one but themselves.” She turns to him, and the fire in Fenris’ gut roars again – _free, free, free, she sets him free._

_With her own life-_

“And so you are the kindling of the chaos to come.”

“Yes!” She laughs, and it’s a surprising sound – it’s not a maniacal glee of a madman, or a proud laughter of a warrior challenged. It’s just – it’s just an amused snort. And as he stares at her with his eyes wide open in shock and _something else,_ a thought passes through his mind that there has never been a more _Hawke_ moment. “I want that chaos, Arishok. Screw destiny. No-one’s led me here, and no-one will tell me what to do. And I want the same thing for this city and for all those idiots I call friends. A freedom to be the makers of our own failures.”

The Arishok stands up from the throne, the decision evident in his every move.

“You are mad, basalit-an.”

“No. Just _free._ Then again, I suppose freedom for a Qunari is the same thing as madness.”

“So be it, Hawke. If we must never understand each other, then let us honour the might in a duel to the death. If you win, then my duty is concluded, and we shall depart. If you lose, your man will aid us in finding the Tome.”

“Carver. His name is Carver, and I trust him with my life.” She doesn’t tear her eyes from the Arishok, but her voice is heard well in every corner of the Keep. “To the death, Arishok.”

A guard passes a gigantic axe to the leader, and he finally descends to stand at the same level as Hawke – and Fenris clenches his fists so hard that the lyrium starts singeing in his skin. Every instinct screams at him to leap to her help, and before he knows it, he steps forward –

A strong hand closes on his shoulder, pulling him back, and he all but snarls at Aveline.

“We can’t! This is the only chance we have.” Her face is white as a sheet, but her grip unyielding. “We need to trust her.”

 _Trust her._            

The Arishok takes the first swing, and he’s helpless, he’s forced to watch –

“Wait! Wait! I’ve got it!” A voice shots through the Keep. “I’ve got your sacred relic. Bit wet, but mostly undamaged. Here it is! _Stop!_ ”

The Arishok freezes mid swing. And Isabela – Isabela kicks back a corpse of a Qunari, steps over it, and, hips swaying in her usual half-drunken gait, walks up to Hawke.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“Isabela,” she says, shock and relief written all over her face. The pirate passes the thick, moist tome to the Arishok, and he takes it, dropping the axe to the floor without even thinking.

“The Tome of Koslun.” There’s disbelief in his voice.

“Yup. Here you go. Sorry it took a while to get back, with all that fighting everywhere. Not all of us can just blast our way through, you know.” She looks at Hawke, cockiness covering uncertainty, and Hawke doesn’t react at first. But then, after a long second, her face smoothens.

“Seriously? Heroic last-minute rescue? Your reputation is _ruined,_ Isabela.”

“I know! This is all your fault. I was halfway to Ostwick before I realised that I just couldn’t love you and leave you like that. Pathetic. _You’ve_ ruined me, Hawke.”

“Are you expecting an apology for this or what?”

“Nah, not really. Great Hawke never apologises.”

“Nor does the great Isabela, apparently.” There’s a sudden edge to that, and the pirate reddens.

“I said I’m sorry! No, seriously. I _am_ sorry. This… I wasn’t expecting this.”

The Arishok seems to shake off the stupor. He passes the Tome to a guard as delicately as he were holding a newborn baby, and all the Qunari bow deeply. Then, as if three years of searching and waiting have been taken off his shoulders, he straightens up with new energy.

“The relic is reclaimed. I am now free to return to Par Vollen.”

 _Is it over?_ Fenris barely dares believe it, and Hawke seems to share that sentiment. But relief blossoms on her face.

“Thank you, Arishok. You can leave as soon as you please.”

“The thief will come with us.”

And, just like that, it’s snuffled out again.

“Oh, no no no.” Aveline tightens her lips. “If anyone kicks her ass, it’s _me!_ ”

“Why? You’ve got the Tome. You can leave! You hate the city and everything in it, remember? Why take yourself a souvenir?” Hawke takes a step forward so she stands between the Arishok and Isabela. She’s shorter than the pirate, so it doesn’t quite work, but the effect is achieved. The Qunari frowns.

“She stole the Tome of Koslun. She will be taken back and re-educated.”

“I’m not letting that happen, Arishok.”

“The justice _will_ be found in the Qun. She will submit.”

“Like hell she will! You have your relic, Isabela stays here. Why can’t you just be agreeable for once?!”

“Because it is not my task to be so,” answers simply the Arishok, and Isabela steps from behind Hawke, bristling.

“I’ll claw my way out of every fucking ship you take me on, you brute beast. One step closer and I’ll show you how exactly.”

The Arishok picks up the axe from the floor. “And fight we will. You leave me no choice.”

“Come and get it, chief. You should know better than to mess with pirates.”

“Hawke! Our challenge stands. Will you let go of the thief, or will you fight me to the death with her as the prize?”

And – just like that – Isabela’s thrown to the side. “ _No!_ If you’re going to duel anyone, duel me! It’s my life! She’s – just fucking fight _me!_ ”

“You are not basalit-an. You are unworthy. What say you, Hawke?”

The Qunari guards seize Isabela and drag her to the side despite her struggle. Fenris closes his eyes. This is – this is the destiny that Hawke has disavowed. Despite everything, despite everyone, despite all the circumstances turning and the best effort of them all – she still stands against the bulk of the Arishok, so ridiculously small and weak, and there’s only one answer she will give.

_She’ll die._

“I accept your challenge, Arishok.”

“Ataash varin kata.” _In the end lies victory._ He raises his axe –

And she turns around and casts him a gaze that _burns,_ that goes right through him, and he suddenly feels her frayed, quivering aura expand in something that feels hot and electric and – and – and – _no. No. No. No, no, no, no, please no –_ he knows with cold, terrifying certainty that if she dies, he will never, ever forget that look.

_There’s nothing, nothing I won’t do to protect the people I love._

The axe falls –

But she’s not there, she’s skipped away.

The next minutes are the most torturous experience of his life. Every time the Arishok swings his axe, his heart stops – only to resume its frantic, rapid beating when she dodges it. He hatches at her with relentless force, and each of the blows will be enough to kill her on its own. And she’s not even trying the counter-attack, trying to wear him down first – or maybe she’s just lacking the time to focus. What results from it is an excruciatingly tense dance around the hall, with her dodging and evading his blows, hiding behind the pillars –

No. Not behind the pillars. Behind _one_ pillar –

The Arishok is hatching at it with a force capable of slaying a dragon.

And he remembers his musings – a bird of prey caught in the tempest, flung by it, but she does not fight it…

_She turns it into her own force._

Suddenly – he understands. And a glimmer of hope rises in his mind overstrained by fear.

But the battle drags on, and despite the fact that the Arishok tired – his blows are slower now, though just as devastating – she tires too. Twice she has to block the axe with her own barrier, and each time he feels the quivering of her aura. Third time he almost goes through it –

He’s unaware of the fact that he’s moving forward to her _again_ until Aveline drags him back.

It drags on.

And on.

She taunts the Arishok back to her pillar, and he can clearly see the marble splinters across the floor. A crack goes through it, tantalizingly slow… A chop. Again. She moves back, then around. The axe is felling the pillar like a tree.

“You haven’t landed a single blow, Hawke!” yells the Qunari, bloodthirst and frustration clear in his roar. “Fight like an equal, or flee!”

“You haven’t landed a blow either, Arishok. Fight or flee!”

Another roar tears through the air, and he hacks at her again – and the pillar shudders under the immense force as she dodges. Then –

She runs away a safe distance. Before he follows, for the first time she raises her staff and swirls it around in a familiar complex form –

“She’s a _mage!_ Hawke is a _mage!_ ” yells one of the nobles huddled in the corner. Aveline turns and shoots him a steely glance.

“Of course she’s a mage! Her father was a mage, her sister was a mage, and she’s a mage! Are you slow or something?!”

Then everything else is drowned in the roaring storm that comes to life around the pillar. There is lightning in it, and white-hot fire, but first and foremost there is _wind_ – and she tugs at the spell, the Arishok yells something incomprehensible, and the tempest _tilts._

The pillar shudders under the force of the wild winds. The crack going through it widens – Fenris is clenching his fists so hard that the blood flows out from under the lyrium – and, slowly like a fall of a giant, it _collapses_ on the Arishok.

The dust and fog covers everything, and he can’t see, can’t breathe.

Then a wind blows through the room from where Hawke is standing, exposing an apocalyptic scene: the ceiling at the side of the hall has fallen, the rubble and shattered marble covering the entire ground where the Arishok stood.

“It’s over,” she says, and her voice is the only noise in the entire Keep.

Until – _until the rubble is moving,_ the heavy stone is being shrugged off, and against all odd the gigantic, scarred body of the Qunari is rising from the ruins. His arm is shattered, his head is bloody, but he stands nevertheless and spits what could have been a tooth. “Not yet, basalit-an.”

Shock spreads through Hawke’s features, and Fenris realises that she hasn’t factored this is. The Arishok moves towards her slowly, dragging his axe across the floor, and she jumps aside instinctively – but she slips on a piece of rubble and almost falls. A fireball flies to the Arishok and lands across his chest, but it does not slow him down. He looks absolutely terrifying – bloodied, shattered, disfigured, with a charred burn dying on his breast, but _still moving towards her._

And he raises his axe –

She dodges and delivers a blow to his broken shoulder. He shudders, but instead of letting his axe down, he changes the direction of its swing and –

It hits home.

Fenris’ vision turns red.

She – she _falls._

The axe comes out of her body with an obscene squelch. She lies on her face limply, and there is a deep red wound on her back, from the shoulder, along the spine, all the way to her hip, revealing white bones underneath and she’s – she’s – _she’s dying in the puddle of her own blood –_

No blood magic.

_No blood magic._

Her fingers twitch and still.

“Anders,” his voice is not his own. “ _Help her._ ”

“I can’t! Not with this distance and with the Arishok- wait. Wait. HAWKE!” The mage’s face is completely white, strung in immense pressure. “The pendant! The enchantment! _Use the enchantment, Hawke!_ ”

There’s nothing. The Arishok stands over her broken body, his charred chest rising and falling heavily. And then – slowly – slowly – her fingers move to her chest, and more blood spills out of the enormous tear on her back.

Her eyes are closed, but her lips mouth _Fenris –_ and there’s an explosion of white light.

He’s blinded.

And when he finally opens his eyes again – Hawke stands.

He breathes out. “Thank you,” he murmurs without realising what he’s saying, and Anders shakes his head, his hands shivering more than Fenris’ own. The Arishok’s face is crossed with anger and disbelief, and he raises his axe again, but this time Hawke makes a curt gesture and a lightning flicks through the metal on his weapon. He shudders, fighting the electricity, and then – his muscles giving up – finally drops it.

Hawke steps closer.

“You tried to take something I love.” Her voice is throttled with pain, but strong nevertheless. “But I will _not_ lose even one more thing. I’ve had enough.”

The Arishok takes a blind step back and he is the one to slip on the rubble. But his legs give way as he tries to stand up again, and he falls heavily on his back.

“You could’ve just gone with your relic. Why do you make me kill you?”

The Qunari gives a strangled laugh – the closest to a display of emotion he’s ever shown. “You’re still… blind, basalit-an. Because I would… have… killed you… first.”

She nods. And then – almost as an afterthought – she raises her staff and plunges the blade through the Arishok’s heart.

His body jolts as fire and lightning go through him, singeing his vitaar black. There’s a smell of charred meat.

She pulls out her staff and finds his gaze – and a smirk crosses her face. “I told you. Screw destiny.”

Then her knees give way and she falls limply next to the Arishok, and Fenris doesn’t even register moving before he realises that he’s next to her, and there’s Anders, and Carver, and Aveline, and Varric blabbering something incoherently, and blue glow of the healing cocoon, and Isabela sobbing uncontrollably and flooding everyone that would listen to her with excuses and apologies and curses and – and – he closes his hand on her wrist and won’t let go even when Anders tells him to, but then they just cross glances and the mage leaves him alone, and he’s just holding on to her, her hands, her _living body,_ and when he presses his thumb to the inside of her wrist there’s a beating pulse under his fingers, and _he’s never letting go again._    


	12. Justinian

 

They call her the Champion now.

The days grow longer and warmer, and Hawke recovers slowly under Anders’ everyday care. She cannot yet stand on her own and relies on Orana and Bodahn to help her from room to room, but from what Anders says, she has no right to complain – she is no doubt the first Champion ever that has won the duel with one lung, ruptured spine, and a kidney slashed open. The enchantment, as life-saving as it was in the heat of the moment, adds to the complications – some tissues have healed wrongly, and Anders spends most of his time in the Hawke mansion now, muttering curses under his breath and trying to untangle the scarred, barely functioning mess that is Hawke’s body now.

Fenris learns to tolerate him there.

The city heals too. The Keep is renovated first, the pillar raised up again from where it lied on the Arishok; then, at Hawke’s very clear request, the masons and bricklayers move to Lowtown to repair the major damage done by the Qunari. The invaders themselves disappear almost overnight; the dreadnoughts depart quietly before dawn, taking the sword of the Arishok and the Tome of Koslun, but leaving behind the body. Aveline has it burned where it lies; she asks him what should be done with the ashes, and when he answers that it’s irrelevant, she just brings them to the Chantry. “Just because they’re barbarians doesn’t mean that we have to be,” she says, shrugging, and he suppresses a smile. Aveline has learnt absolutely nothing at all, and so all is right in the world.

Spring is in Kirkwall. The skies are clear and blue at the heights of Hightown, and the trees around the mansions stand in blossom. Even his own garden – he never really thought about it before Merrill shows up and somehow sheepishly asks if she could tend it – has an array of flowers that, once carefully kept and cut, spread wildly across the flowerbeds and grass.

He brings the red and golden snapdragons to her bedside once, and with awkwardness that surprises him asks for a vase. Orana brings it – and when Hawke wakes up to the flowers, she weakly tugs at his ribbon-adorned wrist and smiles.

It’s enough.

He sometimes has nightmares about her facing the Arishok. The memory is so chilling that he cannot fall asleep again before he takes a stroll across the street and paces under her bedroom window, repeating to himself: _she’s safe. She’s alive, she’s well, she’s safe._ And though a part of him wants to climb the balcony again, he never does it. There are uncrossable lines, things he will no longer risk. 

He’s known for a long time that Hawke’s been terrified of losing him, but he’s never expected the feeling to be so overwhelmingly _crushing._ And if this is how she felt every single time he walked away…

Before he saw her stand before the Arishok, he’d never considered ever losing _her_ – not ultimately. She’s been a constant, an axis of the world. He’d never thought that anything except his own mistakes could ever take her away.

He understands better now.

 _The Champion of Kirkwall._ That’s what she is now. A right of blood, says Varric when he asks him what exactly a Champion is; a title not granted, but hard-won. It fits her. And out of all the names that she’s been called, this is the first one that commands respect not by the way of strength, but sacrifice.

“Your mother would be proud of you, Hawke,” he tells her one evening as they sit together and stare at the fire, and she just nods.

Carver… came through. After they brought Hawke back to the estate in the aftermath of the battle, he stayed by her side, glaring at anyone who even _thought_ of suggesting him to move away from his sister. What transpired directly after she woke up for the first time was effectively an one-sided shouting match that he was just about to cut short with few angry words – until he realised that Carver was shaking, tears in his eyes. “ _Never_ do that again, Aedale! Or I’ll-”

“D-difficult… to get… ‘nother… Arishok,” manages Hawke through her half-blocked throat and half-lidded eyes, and Carver huffs at that – and then leans in to give his sister as delicate a hug as his bear-like arms can manage.

And when he leaves – he comes back.

It’s not all sweet between the Hawke siblings, but at least they have each other. Fenris allows himself a fleeting thought about his _sister_ and the silence of Varric’s messengers; it seems that the witch has lied after all. But he discovers that watching the Hawkes reunite gives him a sense of peace; and maybe, he thinks, if Carver can be forgiven for all his hatred, harshness, and selfishness, then maybe when the time comes, Hawke will not reject _him_ either.

And even with her still healing in the mansion – he is not alone.

In the evenings, he sits with Varric at the Hanged Man, reading quietly something of his collection as the dwarf writes his endless correspondence, sometimes voicing a question, or a political issue to consider; the city is still dealing with the Qunari fallout, and there will be years until the networks of diplomacy and international clandestine calm down around Kirkwall. Sometimes they walk down to play a round or two with Isabela, and sometimes Aveline, Merrill, or Anders join them too; every couple of days they shift these evenings to the Hawke estate, and Orana helps her lady down to join them around the dark-wooden table; it’s not the same one that serves as Leandra’s catafalque – Hawke’s burned it long ago – but the memory of last Satinalia still hangs in the air, sad yet bittersweet. Sebastian comes too every once in a while, and once, when he addresses her absent-mindedly –

“It’s Hawke, Sebastian.”

“Beg your pardon?” The prince blinks at her.

“You can call me Hawke now. I think you’ve earned it.”

An uncertain smile blossoms on his face. “As you prefer it, Ae– _Hawke_.”

Hawke grins at the prince, and her glance flickers over Fenris – and he nods at her slightly, corners of his lips raised in a small smile.

The march on Starkhaven does not happen. There is no viscount to order it, and Hawke herself is still recovering – not to even consider that the city does not have the money to spend on an army when the dust after the Qunari destruction has barely settled. They all spend Summerday with Hawke instead, the table brought outside in the garden and amongst the flowers. With a certain surprise Fenris notes that there are fresh flowerbeds filled with red and golden snapdragons – and when Hawke sees where he’s looking, she flashes him a brilliant smile.

The prince is with them too, and he appears serene enough. When Fenris asks him about it, he gives him a placid glance: “Elthina and I have talked about it. If I am meant to restore my crown, I will. But in the meantime, I am spending my time reconciling with my duties to the Maker that I have so recklessly abandoned.”

“Does it not frustrate you?”

“Of course it does! But I would rather see Kirkwall restored from its wounds first. I’ve lived in this city for longer than I’ve ever spent in Starkhaven, Fenris. In the end, we all choose our homes.”

That makes him think about Tevinter and Seheron. And yet – and yet despite everything, he finds himself at ease in Kirkwall, and he’s glad when the masons finally remove the damage done by the Qunari attack in the Hightown district.

Summerday turns into Summernight, and on an impromptu decision – Anders protests at first, but confronted with _six_ pleading faces, finally relents – they carry Hawke down to the docks and to the shore. She’s tucked in a blanked like a newborn, forewarned that every meagre cold could slow her healing considerably; but her eyes are wide with excitement at _finally_ leaving the mansion, and they reflect the lights of Summernight like two brilliant jewels.

They take a boat to the shore, and watch the illumination on the Kirkwall walls as the city celebrates the holiday with a million of bonfires; the black contour of the rocks and buildings is dazzling with white and gold against the darkening night sky. The air is clear, the summer in the tide. She makes a gesture under her blanket, and a ribbon of shining little wisps of golden light flies out from under it.

“What did I tell you, Hawke? No magic!”

“Oh, get off her case for one day a year, Andy.” Isabela tries to catch a wisp; the little creature phases through her hands effortlessly. “Hey! No fair.”

Merrill giggles. “We used to do that with the clan! Try these, Isabela.” Her wisps are greenish-blue, and their flap their air-light wings like butterflies. When the pirate lunges at them with an infallible instinct of a rogue, they stay trapped in between her palms, and she lets out a satisfied sigh. “Three down, ‘bout fifty to go.”

“Come on, Anders. Your turn now. Show us your moves!” taunts Hawke from her bundle. “It’s Summernight! Everything’s supposed to _shine!_ You won’t be telling me you don’t have any flashy moves up your sleeve, will you now?”

 Anders looks between Hawke and Merrill, makes a face, and then relents.

“Okay. But only this once!” He assumes a stance Fenris has learnt to associate with lightning, and he instinctively moves away, but the bundle in his arms is tugging at his shoulder and he stays put. As he looks down at her brightened face, the lights of Kirkwall bonfires and the wisps flying through the air reflected in her eyes, he realises that he’s never seen magic like that: obvious, natural like breathing, harmless, bright, and – he cannot deny it – _beautiful._

He’s an _abomination_ – the elf’s a _maleficar_ \-  and Hawke’s an apostate of too much raw power. And yet – and yet for the first time he realises that there could be more about what they wield, that this light and this energy that tickles his skin like a caress is – it’s –

It’s not all evil.

The swelling energy is released at Anders’ hands, and it first it’s just a beam of blinding light. But then, as he kneads the air delicately, its splitting and forming like a nest of slithering golden snakes, all shining scales and reflections – a horned head pushes itself from the tangled mess, a golden shape of a high dragon. Hawke lets out a squeal.

“Anders! This is _beautiful!_ ”

“You’ve seen nothing yet, Hawke!” The dragon pulls itself out in full, and spreads its wings – and even Fenris cannot deny the raw splendour of the shining, half-translucent beast of pure light. It opens its gigantic jaws and _roars_ silently, and then _plummets towards them_ – he instinctively crouches, covering Hawke with his own body –

The dragon passes over their heads in a swish of light and heat, and flies over the sea, a million of golden reflections waking up in the waves. A shining beacon of the Dragon Age, a symbol of might and true power, and – and magic. Hawke laughs, her eyes sparkling with delight. And then – the dragon opens its mouth, tilting its head up and breathes into the sky the fire so bright that it’s almost white, with only golden reflexes dancing at the tips of the flames. The stars are dimmed, and it almost seems like a sunrise already, and – and the dragon is _pouring itself into the fire,_ first his tail, then the gigantic body, then the long scaly neck and finally the head with burning eyes becomes the flame itself, shining white fire covering the sky over the sea in an illumination brighter than the sun - and it’s almost too much but not enough, and she’s _laughing_ in his arms, the weight against his chest anchoring him in reality. _She’s alive. We’re alive._

And then the light – explodes.

They’re blinded for a short second, and he’s blinking away the afterimage of a shining translucent beast burnt at the inner side of his eyelids – but when he opens his eyes again, there’s nothing more than golden dust slowly descending from the sky. Hawke pulls out her hand from the blanket and catches it, a brilliant speck of stardust; it settles on their hair, their hands, their faces, and _shines_ – before slowly fading away.

Hawke’s the first one to clap. Then Merrill, then Isabela, then Sebastian, then Varric, then Aveline, and Anders beams in front of them, his face all brightened and pinked with effort. “So. Someone still wants to call me a party pooper?”

“Oh, you’re still a party pooper, Anders. Just with some really cool moves.” Hawke stretches in her bundle, then swears quietly. “Ow! Shit. I think I just pulled some stitches. If you don’t mind, Serrah Party Pooper…”

Anders rolls his eyes. “I am trying very hard not to say _I told you so._ ” But his face is still open and bright, and hers too. Fenris carefully lays her down on the ground, and Anders expertly unravels the blankets to expose fresh blood. Blue light emanates from his hands.

“You two,” says Hawke quietly, and they both freeze over her. But she gives them a soft smile. “Thank you.”

They refuse to look at each other, both mumbling some weak repartees. But ultimately, it does not matter – for everything that’s different, and for all the hatred that is between them, there’s one thing that makes them alike.

They both love her.

In the end, they light a traditional bonfire, and they sit together around it, telling stories, drinking bad wine, and watching the sea and sky long after all the lights on the Kirkwall walls have dimmed, the shimmering dust still in their hair.

 

-/-

 

Life goes on, punctuated by cards at the Hanged Man and visits at Hawke’s mansion. Aveline gives him a couple of jobs, and even half-heartedly offers to enlist under her; he just shakes his head. Meanwhile, he picks up loose ends of whatever tasks Hawke has not managed to finish off before the Qunari invasion; soon enough, he takes over the letters that come in piles to her desk, deciphers them with increasing ease, and – bringing together Varric, Isabela, and sometimes Sebastian or Aveline – he runs Hawke’s errands around the city.

It’s different travelling without her, and it’s like they’re lacking the centre. And, even though he’d never say it out loud, he misses having a mage in the party.

Or perhaps he just misses _her._

She’s of course deadly jealous, and loudly expresses her disapproval every time they come back, but ultimately –  the wheels of Kirkwall are turning, and life goes on.

Merchants’ Guild offers him a substantial sum of money for an insight into Varric Tethras’ letterbox. They have a good laugh about it next time he sees the dwarf; then they make up an enough real-seeming report and split the cash. Immediately a flood of complaints overflows Varric’s desk, and the markets go volatile for a week.

Bloomingtide passes, and Justinian comes around; and towards the end of the month, Hawke walks the distance between her room and the vestibule on her own. (Then she collapses and he has to carry her the rest of the way, but it’s the success that matters.) Her lungs are healed, her spleen and kidney patched up and working again, and Anders decides it’s time for her to attempt functioning on her own.

She fails miserably for the first week, but she keeps trying, and he’s at her side.

He fetches her books, opens the cupboards, supports her first wobbly steps, and carries her when she trips over her own legs. She pushes him away at first, and he doesn’t understand – frankly, he feels hurt and rejected – before she asks in an uncertain voice whether this was not treating him too much like a _servant._ Then he just shrugs it off. There is no servitude in _wanting_ to help.

And – because this is inevitable – they grow closer again. He knows that sometimes she leans on him even though she is now able to support herself just fine; and some other times he carries her to bed despite knowing that she’s only pretending to be asleep in his arms, her heart beating out an uncertain, half-excited staccato against his skin. He does not object. Her weight at his chest gives him a strange sense of serenity; now that he’s known how it feels to _almost lose her,_ the only true peace he knows is when he’s holding her.

He’s never letting go again.

And yet – some lines are still uncrossable. He doesn’t kiss her, even despite that in some moments, there’s nothing else he wants. He doesn’t stay the night. He’s made a decision, and he will stay by it: he will not walk away from her again.

And so he stays in the only way he knows: guarding.

It’s different, though. Instead of kissing him, she traces the swirling patterns on his hands; and he shudders, because his hands are for killing and ripping out the hearts of warriors, not for giving and receiving soft caresses. Then the insides of his wrists – and he shudders again, feeling his own pulse against her fingers, blood and lyrium connected into something of an abomination in his own body, but somehow – somehow – she kisses the white tangle at the inside of his wrists, and the fear and disgust slowly melts away in the gentle heat of her lips. There’s no erotic desire in it, or at least not enough to stir him out of his comfort; just the steady rhythm of blood in their veins, and he remembers how he clutched her wrist in blind relief after the battle, his entire world contained in that weak pulse.

And so – touch after touch – he’s learning something that is too big for words.

 

-/-

 

When Hawke can walk on her own, Isabela disappears with little warning. She offers no explanation, although Fenris can give a very simple one: guilt and shame. He thinks the pirate had stayed as long as she had for Hawke’s sake; but now, having seen the exact amount of damage that her actions have caused, Isabela runs and hides. Her disappearance sours everybody’s mood for a while, but then the pirate sends a long, rambling letter about her newest lays and the routes she’s met them at, and when Varric reads it out over the table in a high-pitched voice, they snort and laugh and roll their eyes and it becomes a little bit easier to deal with her absence.

 He discovers that he misses the pirate. There was something comforting in her demon-may-care attitude, utter lack of respect for the society’s rules, and a tendency to loot his wine cellar for the worst sweet wine; now that she’s gone, he briefly considers Varric for his new drinking buddy, but the dwarf prefers beer over wine and has too strong a head for him – and after a catastrophic night when he ends up bellowing Fog Warrior chant whilst half-naked and drumming his sword against the table, he permanently crosses Varric off the list. (He threatens to disembowel him if he ever passes that story along, but _of course_ it gets out.) He won’t dare drink too much around Hawke just yet, and Sebastian does not drink at all, so ultimately he invites Aveline for a glass of wine – and they spend a strangely entertaining evening, discussing politics, army, and the fallout of the Qunari battle. It’s… nice, and he enjoys having an opportunity to spend some time with the direct, no-nonsense guard-captain, but it’s just not the same thing as Isabela’s drunken shenanigans.

Hawke misses her too.

“Hey Fenris. Fenris!” He raises his head from his book, watching as Hawke takes one careful step after another from her own armchair to his. “I just remembered. There’s a new hat shop in town. Wanna go with me there?”

“Not particularly, Hawke.” He drops his gaze back down, but not fast enough to miss her expression sour.

“Come on! I haven’t bought hats in _weeks._ Plus I need someone as a living cane, much as it pains me to say it. I have a reputation to uphold now, can’t just roll down the streets when I fall. Champion and all.”

“Go with Orana.”

She huffs. “Much as I love that girl to bits, she will _never_ tell me the truth about the hats, though. She’ll be like, ‘ _this is lovely, messere_ ’ and ‘ _it looks good on you, messere_ ’. And then I end up buying all the shit. I’m speaking from experience!”

He looks at her again, raising his eyebrows. “And you really think _I_ am the better choice?”

“Well, since Aveline is perpetually busy, Merrill wouldn’t know the difference, and after they’re out you are the most feminine of my little merry band, then-”

“ _Feminine?_ ”

“Oh, come on. You get moody on a regular basis, wear leggings, and drink posh wine. Come to think about it, you might actually be _more_ feminine than Aveline…”

“Watch yourself, Hawke.”

She smirks at him, taking one more step to his armchair. ”Guess you can’t really deny that.”

“No, watch _yourself,_ Ha-” And then, utterly expectedly, she trips on the crease on the carpet, wobbles uncertainly for a split second, and falls – straight into his arms.

He catches her. After so many times, it’s just too natural to pull her against him, with one arm supporting her knees, the other snaking its way around her shoulders. She nestles against his chest without a pause, something warm and wonderful and calm stirring at his core. _She’s safe now. He’s got her._

The book falls off his lap, forgotten.

“I don’t think you’re going anywhere with this much attention to where you step, Hawke.”

She sighs, and he feels the movement of her chest against his. Her hand finds its way to his, looped across her shoulder. “I miss her, Fenris.”

He doesn’t need to ask. “She’ll be back.”

“Hopefully not the way she was back the last time.”

The very memory of that day makes him shudder. He can feel the thick scarred tissue on her back under his arm, and he can remember all too well – with terrifying detail that will never slip from his memory – the way white bones shone in the open bleeding wound. “You sacrificed everything for her. She won’t forget it.”

“No-one takes away what I love.” And her palm moves from his grasp, slides down to press an open hand to his heart – and it quickens its pace despite his efforts to remain calm. “No-one.”

“Hawke…”

She shifts in his arms slowly, with careful movements that betray lingering pains. But finally, after a long shuffle, she presses her knees on either side of him, and her palms to his chest. His ears turn pink as his pulse quickens; _she is straddling him._ And – oh no – oh no – it’s impossible for her not to feel the rising heat between them –

“It’s okay,” she whispers, laying her head down on his chest. “It’s okay.” And they just sit there, breathing slowing down, calming with effort, until he finds himself again and loops his arms around her waist, holding her close again. She’s here. He’s here. _She’s alive and safe, and nothing will ever harm her once he holds her._

She touches his chest. And it starts as nothing, just a pattern feathered across his ribs, muted through the fabric of his shirt. But then she reaches his clavicle, and the swirling lines of lyrium there heat up at her touch, and oh – it feels – it _feels._ Her fingers trail the rims of his lyrium-filled scars, and despite himself he shudders.

“Is it too much?” she asks in a small voice. He shakes his head wordlessly. This is different. The desire burns in him, but there’s something more over it: something so gigantic and overwhelming that it threatens to spill over and drown him in this endless, _wonderful_ intensity. Her palms move up, along the lines of his throat, to the sides of his jaw, and then she traces the shape of his face with so much tenderness and gentleness and he needs to squeeze his eyelids shut because – because – it overflows – it _is_ too much, but not in the way she fears, this is –

He’s lost in it, her warmth, her touch, her love and acceptance, and the way it feels like – _reclaiming his own skin,_ and she’s there, she’s alive, _she’s alive_ , and he’s never letting go.

Hot tears spill down his cheeks, and she kisses them off.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers hoarsely against her skin. “I watched you die.”

“You didn’t. I’m right here, Fenris. I- I’m sorry. You never said…” Her lips press against his eyelashes, feather soft, wet kisses across his forehead. “I’m here.”

He’s shivering, his heart expanding in something terrifying and wonderful and overwhelming and – _she’s alive, she’s here,_ and he’s here, and the blood is pounding in his ears and he cannot stop himself from the silent, violent sobbing that shakes his entire body, his eyes squeezed shut so hard that it almost hurts from the tension, and he’s –

He’s letting go.

She holds him, her body warm and alive in his arms, his face cupped gently between her palms.

It lasts an eternity, and it doesn’t end even when he stills, quiets, slumps back into the chair bonelessly – he doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t want to see, but she nestles herself back on his chest, and his breathing slowly calms down into a slow, regular rhythm.

“There’s no shame in being broken,” she whispers, and he feels her lips moving against his breast, her breath on his skin. “I’m broken. But we can try and fix each other. And you’re free now, Fenris. Everything about you… you’re your own man. You’re free.”

And maybe it’s the half-euphoric, light-headed, tired state he’s in, but for all the times she’s said it before, _now_ he believes her.

And for all the tomorrows that he’s promised himself, when he closes his arms around her, the tears of – of everything, but also of _relief_ still hot on his face, for the first time he _really_ realises what she’d really meant when they spoke about the Qun on the pass through Vinmark, almost a year ago: that being truly _free_ meant no inevitable future.

 _Screw destiny._ He rests his chin on her hair, feeling the steady rhythm of her heart beating against his.

No plans. No fears. No inevitables. No tomorrows.

Only today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we've arrived at the end of Act 2! At 112 pages and >47,000 words, this is the longest story I have ever completed. So - yay me, I guess. And the funniest thing is that this was supposed to be a one-shot.
> 
> Do they get together towards the end? Not *exactly*. We know that Fenris has resolved to kill Danarius first, plus it takes a long, long time for him to fully accept, and reclaim, his own physicality. But at this point, the most crucial threshold has been reached- they are now emotionally equal, and fully aware of how important they are to each other, the main point to which they were journeying throughout the entire "Tomorrow". As far as Act 2 goes, this is it, and the story finishes at 12 chapters and 12 months.
> 
> I might be persuaded into writing an epilogue, though - one more chapter covering Varania, Danarius, and the two lovebirds finally getting together *for real*. Let me know if you're interested in the comments, and - if you're feeling bold - subscribe just in case!
> 
> Thanks for reading, folks. If you've gone through the entire thing, I would be super grateful if you left a comment or something. You know, just to feed the author? Or you can hand me the buckets of tears you've cried because of my literary sadism. That works too. Kudos for you guys for making it through, and hopefully see you around for some other adventure!


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